A Breath Between Us
by WhiteDahlia13
Summary: Stydia Post Nogitsune, Post Insatiable (03x23), Tons of ANGST and even more LOVE...because those two...they're pretty good together.
1. Cry a Wishing Well

"There is a sacredness in tears. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love." - Washington Irving

* * *

 **March 24**

Lydia stands at her bedroom window. It is late morning, but the sky is dark – cloaked in a mass of grey clouds that appropriately hide the sun from curious onlookers. The maple tree that camps outside her window is bare of any buds, bark tinted to black from ever present moisture in the air. The surrounding grounds are absent from movement; not a single person, nor a car, not even a bird or squirrel are anywhere in sight. This has been her view for seven days. It's as if the world is waiting for the end. Although the fog is so dense that Lydia can barely see across the street, she continues to stare into the void. She finds herself doing this a lot lately, but today feels different. The grey seems duller, her vision more obstructed by the fog, the glass she leans her forehead against…colder. Today is the day she has been dreading for one week. She sighs, and her warm exhale mists the window, revealing the words she traced on the pane with her fingertips three days ago. _I miss you,_ it reads. She wonders if the intended recipient has received her message.

Stiles removes the keys from the ignition of his Jeep and takes a breath. The driver's side door pops open with a squeak and his black shoes crunch roughly against the pavement as he steps into the street. These are the only sounds to be heard. The world is grey, and the air feels even colder than it should. A blanket of dampness has been lingering over Beacon Hills for days now…seven days to be exact. He pushes the door shut and moves around to the sidewalk, staring up at a great brick building he has visited many times before. Today feels different. The dimensions of the Martin household seem even more imposing than usual. He empties the air from his lungs with a sigh and shakes his head as he approaches the front door. Then, he searches through his ever-growing collection of keys for the correct one and lets himself into the foyer. It's so quiet he can hear the ticking of Prada's paws against the shiny wood floors as the black and white Papillon trots over to greet him. Stiles gently acknowledges the pup, who follows him as he ascends the long winding staircase. He follows the hallway to the second room on the right – Lydia's room.

He sees Lydia standing at the window, staring outwards with a vacant expression. He has caught her doing this at least a dozen times in the past week. He doesn't have to guess what she is thinking about – he knows. She has her arms wrapped around herself. She does that a lot lately. She is wearing a plain, black cotton dress that hugs her waist and flows downwards into a full skirt which extends just past her knees. As always, she is poised in heels, but these are lower than she normally wears. A few strands of her long strawberry-blonde hair are casually pinned away from either side of her face, while the rest of her silky main cascades in loose waves down her back. He hesitates in the doorway, taking in the sight of her – motionless with heartbreak, but breathtakingly beautiful. The tugging at his chest that he always feels when he sees her is stronger than usual. It helps him find his voice as he makes his way over to her.

"Hi."

She turns to look at Stiles before the word even passes his lips. She didn't hear him approach, but she knew he would be there. She feels the same pulling sensation around her heart that she always does when he is near. It frees her from the rigid posture that has imprisoned her for a third of an hour and allows her to take a few steps towards him.

The two meet in the middle of her room, where their arms instinctively wrap around each other. His hands gather at the small of her back while hers slide under his jacket to grasp his shirt, near his shoulder blades. He pulls her so tightly to him that her heels lift off the ground, and she nuzzles her nose into his neck, letting out a breath that tickles his skin as it breezes over the base of this throat. As Stiles kisses her forehead, the scents of her freshly shampooed hair and floral perfume waft up to greet him, making his stomach flutter. Despite the pain Lydia is in, the feeling of his soft lips against her skin and his warm hands splayed across her back gives her butterflies.

After a long moment, they release each other. Lydia passes her eyes over Stiles and tilts her head at him questioningly.

"Where's your tie?" she asks softly.

"Oh…uh…" he reaches into the outer pocket of his jacket and retrieves a burgundy-colored tie with a thin, silver diamond pattern running across it, "it's…here."

"That's my favorite," she comments, quirking one side of her mouth and glancing down at his hand.

He gives her a half-smile in response. He knows.

"How come you're not wearing it?"

"It was getting late…" he explains with a slight pout.

"And it always takes you _at least_ three tries," she finishes for him.

He tilts his head down, bashfully scratching at the base of his skull with his fingertips. "Yeah…I didn't want to keep you waiting."

She purses her lips quickly. "Here, let me."

When Lydia inches closer to him, Stiles notices that her porcelain complexion is completely bare, leaving her freckles on full display. He admires them while she sets to work on his tie, but when he considers the reason she chose not to wear any makeup, it causes his brows to furrow. He looks into her deep green eyes, which are fixed on his. He reads the sadness in them…the loss…the anguish – things she has consciously hidden from the rest of the world for an entire week, but which she has slowly revealed to him in quiet dark moments, when the two of them were alone. The idea both builds him up and breaks him down. The extent to which she has confided in him makes Stiles feel closer to her than he ever has, but he also knows there is much more she is still withholding. He wonders when the dam will finally breach and worries whether he will be able to help her when it does.

She eases his black jacket over his shoulders, fastens the top button of his crisp white shirt and lifts the collar. She keeps her eyes on his and reaches down to take the tie from his hand. After sliding it around his neck, she adeptly forms a perfect Windsor knot in less than thirty seconds, only glancing away from his eyes for a second at a time to check her progress. Then she folds his collar down, adjusts his jacket, and smooths the front of his shirt with her palms, letting them linger over his heart. She studies Stiles's face. The redness that formerly surrounded his eyes has faded, and she can focus on the familiar warmth of his brown irises. She tries to ignore the undercurrent of guilt that emanates from them and the shadows below. His brows are pinched with sadness and concern, and she knows why. His normal coloring has started to return, but his cheeks haven't flushed to pink for her in a long while and she misses that. His dark silky hair is parted on the left and neatly combed down, but she longs for its usual unkempt flair and she wants to upset it with her fingertips. He may look tired and burdened, but he is beautiful. She closes her eyes for a second, concentrating on the rhythm beneath her hands. It is strong and steady…not like it was a week ago. She silently wishes she could stay hidden in her room, with Stiles, and spend the time just looking at him and feeling his heartbeat…rather than facing what is in front of them – the day she has been dreading – Allison's funeral.

"There… Done," Lydia announces, offering him a smile and trying to make her voice sound lighter than she feels.

She can't fool Stiles. Though he melts at the contact she initiates and the tender way she is looking at him, he can tell that her smile is forced. It holds not even a glimmer of a genuine Lydia Martin smile – the kind that makes his heart ignite; the kind that makes him glad to be alive, just so he can witness its magic; the kind he would do anything to see again. She is making an effort to be strong for him…and he loves her for it, but he doesn't think he deserves it. It hurts him to see her like this. There is so much pain in her eyes. Pain that he feels responsible for inflicting. He can sense how fraught she is from working to hold herself together. He recognizes her need to seem in control, and he knows where it comes from. She is afraid that if she merely cracks open the doorway to her grief, she may never be able to shut it. When Stiles feels her hands over his heart, his own automatically encircle her wrists, and he massages the smooth skin there with his thumbs. He wishes soothing her pain were as easy as this. He knows it could never be that simple, that he could never have that kind of influence over her, and it makes him ache for her…even worse than he already aches with his own sense of culpability and remorse.

"Thanks," he replies.

"You're welcome."

The sensation of Stiles's warm hands on her bare wrists has a twofold effect on Lydia. His hands both ease her suffering and fill her with fear. His gentle touch stirs something so inherently deep inside her that she can hardly comprehend it. He awakens a part of herself that she never knew existed. She wishes she could tell him what he means to her – that she loves him, but she is intensely afraid of the cost of such a declaration. She has learned her lesson in the most painful way possible – through losing her best friend. Stiles is her entire world now, and she can't lose him too. She hopes she can somehow make him understand this without having to risk the utterance of those words. Though he is right in front of her, she shivers with longing for him. She gets lost in his honey-colored eyes and begins to drift deeper into thought, which in turn, incites a bombardment of memories. The flash of images and sound begin their unrelenting attack every time she allows her mind to wander, but with Stiles near, every element is more vivid, more intense, more like the here and now…not just a distant recollection. She hears Allison's voice pleading with her as clearly as if she were standing right beside her. _Just for one second, please, try and remember… Remember what it feels like._ _All of those times in school when you see him standing down the hall, and you cannot breathe until you're with him_. Lydia didn't understand then, but she does now. Her eyes start to sting with tears. She hesitates for a second longer before abruptly stepping back and walking over to her dresser.

"Lydia?"

"I forgot something."

Stiles has been watching her intently. He sees something that unsettles him – fear. If he is honest, he has seen glimpses of it all week, certainly not just this once. At first, he connected it to the trauma she has suffered, but now he thinks it might be something else. He felt her shudder at his touch, and when he contemplates it more carefully, he can't overlook the fact that Lydia has had the same reaction several times before. It perplexes him because she seems to want…or at least not to mind being physically close with him, but as soon as he returns the contact, her body trembles. He wonders if he is doing something wrong, if he is making her uncomfortable. The unpleasant thought loiters heavily in his mind as he follows her across the room with his eyes.

She picks up a dainty silver bracelet from her jewelry box and perches at the window seat. She attempts once…twice…three times to attach it around her wrist, fumbling each time with shaking fingers while she is swiftly gripped with emotion. Tears that increase in both volume and frequency blur her eyes as she attempts, with growing frustration, to secure the clasp to its mate.

"Damn it!"

"Lydia, hang on a sec. Let me help you."

He quickly moves towards her. He sees what is happening – she is changing shape right before his eyes, and he is helpless to stop it. Just as Stiles reaches her side, the bracelet comes apart and a stream of shining silver beads scatters to the floor.

"Oh no! No!"

She drops to her knees, working in a panic to gather the metallic droplets as they bounce and roll across the carpet. The solitary force propelling her forward – the frantic need to catch each of them before they are lost to her forever…like Allison. She is beside herself with anger for ruining the bracelet, for letting her emotions diminish her control, for not being careful, for not being strong enough…for letting Allison down.

Stiles knows what this is. For seven days, Lydia has been unfalteringly and worryingly stoic. For seven days she has stepped into her role – the devoted best friend. When she learned that the funeral would not take place for one week, to allow Allison's relatives time to arrive from Europe, Lydia insisted on returning to school in the meantime. She ignored the whispers and impolite stares of fellow students as she walked the halls, and politely listened to the barrage of complete strangers, who stopped her to offer condolences and share stories about Allison. As much as Stiles knew it had to be hurting her, Lydia nodded and smiled, consciously making an effort to let each person feel as though their words made a difference – even though they barely knew Allison and had probably never spoken to Lydia before. She made phone calls to Allison's relatives in Paris and Lozère because she is fluent in French and because she wanted to help her best friend's dad – a man who has been more like a father to her than her own. She selected the flowers, laid out Allison's clothes, and made arrangements for the service – all so that Chris wouldn't have to face those choices alone. She agonized over just the right poem to recite and studied it until she was murmuring the verses in her sleep – the little sleep she allowed herself to get, that is. She planned and organized to the point of exhaustion, until every decision was finalized, down to the very last detail.

All the while, Lydia consistently watched over Stiles to ensure he was being taken care of and that he was recovering from the ordeal he had been through. He did his best to keep up with her, to be attentive to her needs, while still giving her the space she needed. He had to remind her to eat most days and it was an effort every night to coax her to sleep. He is convinced that the only reason she did sleep was because he refused to rest unless she at least tried to do the same. They spent each of the last seven nights clinging to each other. The first night, Stiles was required to stay in the hospital for observation. Lydia slept in the chair next to him, with her head resting on his bed and her hand set firmly in his. The next two nights, they dozed off while seated on the couch in the Stilinski living room, her head on his shoulder and their hands intertwined. The one after that, they settled down on the floor of Allison's room, Lydia's head in his lap and his hands woven into her hair. On the fifth and sixth nights, they found respite in the comfort of Stiles's bed, with her head pressed to his chest and his arms locked around her waist. Last night, they rested in Lydia's bedroom, in the very same position. Every one of those nights, she woke from vivid nightmares. He held her in the darkness until she calmed – and that was how they remained, whispering secrets and waiting for morning to arrive.

The pair have spent nearly every minute of every day together and in that time, it has become abundantly clear to Stiles that anything more than an arm's-length of distance between Lydia and himself now causes him physical pain. Leaving her this morning was especially difficult. He went home to shower and change into his suit as quickly as possible. If he could have skipped that, he would have, just so he wouldn't have to be separated from her. He is aware their current sleeping arrangement can't last, and that it is an inappropriate time to be considering it, but he has slept better in the last seven nights than he ever has…and now that he has experienced what it is like to sleep next to Lydia, he doesn't ever want to let her go.

In the past week, Stiles has witnessed the unparalleled beauty of her inner strength. She has cared for everyone but herself, without giving it a second thought, because that is who the real Lydia is, and he knows it better than anyone. All of the sweetness and softness that she tries to disguise from the rest of the world, has been unreservedly directed at him. It crashes over him like a powerful ocean wave, and he wants to lose himself in it…in her…just drift away with Lydia. During the long nights, he has beheld parts of her soul that she shows to no one – the insecurities and doubts, her innermost thoughts, hopes, and dreams. He is so unbelievably grateful that she has chosen to trust him this way, and he can't help feeling more in love with her with every passing second. Even so, he has not been able to stop worrying about her, because for seven days, Lydia has not allowed herself to grieve – not really. Sure, she has shed a few tears and has gone through the motions of preparing for the funeral itself, but he can tell that she has been actively working to deny the reality of Allison's death. The funeral gave her a purpose, something to focus on. Distracting herself with details and redirecting her focus away from the loss – away from the missing link in their lives – has been keeping the deepest parts of Lydia's pain at bay. The parts that cause those left behind to weep at the sight of a sunset that will never be perceived, ache at the trace of a scent one could not possibly be detecting, or crumble at the sound of a song that will never again be heard. But now, all the planning and organizing is done. The funeral is today, and there is nothing to distract her any longer.

The beads are slipping through Lydia's fingers. She feels broken. The fragmented bracelet feels like her heart, and the beads are the shattered pieces of it, which she can't reassemble on her own. She feels lost. She knows she is not prepared for what comes after today – the unsettling quiet, the empty chair beside her at every moment that she and Allison should be experiencing together (both the significant and the mundane), the memory of a sweet smile, framed by two distinct dimples, that will never grace her presence again. She is not ready for life after today – when all is said and done, and there will be no denying that Allison is gone.

Stiles kneels beside Lydia and wraps his arms around her as she despairingly fights to collect the remains of her bracelet. He holds her until she stills, then he rotates her petite frame until they are facing each other. He keeps his hands firmly on her shoulders.

"Lyds…it's alright."

"No, it's not. Stiles, look what I've done! I've ruined it. I can't go without… She gave it to me…and I destroyed it. It's the last thing she gave me, and now it's gone! What am I going to do?"

She holds up her forearms, furiously clutching two fists-full of beads. She squeezes so tightly that her hands have gone white. Her eyes are wide and impressed with panic, her cheeks are turning pink, and she is pursing her lips so tightly that they drain of their natural rosy tone. He realizes she is holding her breath and actively works to calm her, cupping her face as a flood of tears slip through her eyelashes and dampen his hands.

"Lydia, look at me. Shh, look at me. Shh, Lydia…it's going to be alright. I can fix it… I'll fix it for you, I promise. Just breathe… I need you to breathe for me."

She finally exhales, her entire body tremors with sobs she can't withhold.

"That's it… Again… Breathe in…and out with me."

Her face seems to be pleading with him, and the tugging in his chest sharpens noticeably. He would kiss her right now if he thought it would help. He is sure it won't.

Lydia stares at him hoping he will read her mind the way he has a million times before. She wishes he would kiss her right now and breathe the life back into her. She feels like the only way to fill her lungs with air, is if Stiles breathes it into her.

He releases her face and gently takes hold of her hands with his own. "Let me see," he says.

She reluctantly opens her violently vibrating hands to reveal dozens of beads. The glossy particles rattle around in her palms, dancing over eight crescent-shaped cuts in her skin, which have inadvertently been carved by her fingernails.

"Oh…Lydia."

She turns away from him, seemingly embarrassed at the unguarded show of emotion she has unleashed. He doesn't want her to drift any further, so he touches her chin to bring her back.

"It's okay. Here, let me take those."

She immediately closes her hands and pulls them away, while vigorously shaking her head. "No, they're all I have."

"Hey, you can trust me. I'll keep them safe. I promise. I'll keep them safe, and I'll fix your bracelet.

"But… But there's no time, and I _need_ to have them with me. I can't go without…"

"Okay…okay…um…" He quickly scans the room. "What about…" When his eyes pass over her, he spots a delicate silver chain around her neck, and it gives him an idea. "Can I have your necklace for a minute?"

She looks at him curiously but nods. He leans close, gently gathering her hair in his hands and draping the mass of auburn waves over her right shoulder. He slowly reaches to the nape of her neck, where his fingertips hesitantly graze along the skin there as he locates and unhooks the clasp.

"Hold out your hands," he instructs her.

She complies, shuddering as his breath passes over her ear and the soothing heat of his hands leaves her skin.

Stiles takes the largest bead from her palm, slides it onto her necklace, and holds the newly minted jewel before her. "Here, now you have part of it at least."

She looks at him with awe and smiles a genuine smile through the steady stream of tears that has been escaping the corners of her eyes. His thoughtfulness touches her heart and sends its pace quickening. As he moves forward to fasten the necklace in place, she is once again aware of the tugging sensation in her chest. She lets it bring her closer until her head is resting on his shoulder. Stiles is the best thing in her life; the only one holding her together. He is the pure light she so desperately wants to embrace. Her heart swells with love for him.

"Stiles…I…" she starts and stops.

She wants to tell him what he means to her, but fear holds the words hostage, confining them as they struggle to rise up from the base of her throat. She knows it will be the end if she tells him, and she can't let him go. Not when she just got him back – not ever. She feels him shift underneath her as he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small plastic case that should have Adderall inside, but is currently empty.

"Here…look…we can put the rest in here 'til later."

When all of the silver gems are safely inside, he snaps the case shut and replaces it in his jacket. Lydia reluctantly lifts her head from his shoulder. Stiles feels like she wants to tell him something but he's not sure what it is, so he stands and offers her his hands, which she accepts. He helps her up, brings her into him, and cradles her in his arms. Lydia squeezes his torso as he massages along her spine with his palms. She inhales a deep shaky breath, taking in the familiar comforting scent of him. She thinks of how his arms have been around her nearly every night for the past week. It makes her ache for the transient hours before dawn – the hours when time slowed down, gifting her the illusion that she and Stiles were the only two people in the world; the hours that held whispered confidences, tender touches, silent lingering gazes, the warmth of Stiles surrounding her, and the solace of his heartbeat strumming against her ear.

"Stiles, I'm sorry."

Her apology sounds foreign to him, especially when he is the one who is sorry…the only one who should be. If he had just been stronger, none of this would have happened. Allison would still be alive. She and Lydia would be in this room laughing together, and Lydia would not be hurting right now. He takes hold of her upper arms and arches back to look at her.

"Don't you do that. You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing… Alright?" he says earnestly.

She nods and blinks away a few stray tears. But she _is_ sorry. Sorry that she couldn't protect her friend. Sorry that she will never see her again. Sorry that she can't tell Stiles that he has captured her heart and that she wants him to keep it. Sorry that they may never have a chance.

"Okay, now let me see your hands."

"They're fine."

"Lydia, please let me see."

She self-consciously complies, but as Stiles surveys the damage, wincing at the angry cuts and gliding his thumbs across the backs of her hands, she changes again. She is softer than she was a minute ago. She is looking into his eyes instead of trying to hide from him. It offers Stiles a sense of tranquility because in that moment, he feels like Lydia is anchored to him…and if that is the case, maybe she won't drift very far.

He drops a quick kiss on her forehead. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

Stiles places his hands on Lydia's waist and walks her to the adjoining bathroom. He stands behind her and reaches around her body to turn on the faucet, leaning his cheek against hers as he waits for the tap water to warm slightly. For the first time in months, he is nervous being this close to her, but he craves the proximity, nonetheless. He takes her hands and gingerly rinses them clean, working to keep his attention on the task, rather than the feeling of her skin against his.

She watches his face in the mirror. He is worrying his lower lip while he intently focuses on her hands. When her skin is free of all traces of blood, he encourages her to turn and face him.

Lydia is now locked between Stiles and the sink. The porcelain is cool against her back, and he is warm in front of her. In the small space, he appears to be towering over her, and it makes her feel safe. _He is so close._ She starts staring up at his lips. She wants them on her – wants him to kiss all of the hurt away. She knows it's not as easy as that, but she wishes for it all the same. She waits as he pulls a towel from the rack and tenderly pats her hands dry. He places the towel aside and laces their fingers together before bringing her hands upwards and kissing her knuckles. She closes her eyes as her heart begins to thump wildly against her ribs, fully aware that her response is the result of escalating anxiety about the funeral, as well as the uncontrollable desire that Stiles kindles with even the lightest contact. Lydia doesn't understand how she can be beside herself with grief and besotted with love at the same time. She thinks she must be wrong on the inside – the poorest excuse for a friend. It makes her shiver with guilt.

Stiles can feel her inching closer. He can't quite interpret the way she is looking at him, it feels like she is saying _more_ , but he fights the urge to seek the contact he desires – to secure his hands around her waist and squeeze until she is pressed against him, to tilt his head down until their faces are millimeters apart, to glide his lips over hers until she parts for him, to mold his mouth with hers until his lungs are tight from a lack of oxygen, to pause for a breath…then begin all over again. He quickly disregards the possibility that Lydia would want that from him, privately scolding himself for even considering it at such a time. Even if she let him hold her like that, he would feel like he was taking advantage of her…and he would hate himself more than he already does, if that is even possible. He thinks he must be evil inside, that maybe the Nogitsune changed him permanently. He reigns himself in, decides to show his affection by kissing her hands instead. It seems safer, more acceptable, but then he feels her quiver another time and realizes that even a such a reserved offering is a mistake.

"Stiles?" she sighs.

"Yeah," he whispers as his lips remain frozen against her left hand.

"I can't do this. I can't."

He looks down at her through his long dark lashes. He assumes she means she wants him to let go, but she elaborates before he acquires the willpower to move.

"I can't say good-bye to her."

He feels a momentary reprieve; perhaps he hasn't overstepped. He steadies himself, hunching down, so they are face to face.

"You don't have to. I know it seems like…not enough, but she will always be part of you. Today is about honoring what she means to all of us but…Lydia, you don't ever have to say good-bye to her… She's right here…" he says, running his index finger across her temple, "and she's right here too," he gestures between their two hearts.

She looks at him with such admiration that he can almost believe she feels something beyond friendship for him. As quickly as the thought enters his mind, it departs. He knows that can't be true. It's too much to hope for, especially after everything…everything he has done.

"I'm scared," she confides.

Stiles recognizes that on the surface, she is referring to the funeral and of facing tomorrow without Allison – stepping back into a world that keeps moving forward, while they are stranded in time and worn down with sorrow, but there is a nagging whisper in his mind that tells him she is scared of something else.

"I know. So am I…but…it will be alright. We can do this one last thing together…for her." As soon as the words pass his lips, he questions why he said _one last thing_. He doesn't consciously remember choosing the phrase, but those three short syllables echo in his mind and deepen the ache in his heart.

The way he lingers over the words _one last thing_ makes Lydia uneasy, but the concern quickly slips from her consciousness when Stiles touches her face. She nods at him, astonished at the power he has over her; not to control her, but to soothe her. If anyone understands the pain of loss, it's him. Even though she can't imagine anything being alright again, she loves Stiles so much that he could tell her the sun revolves around the earth, and she would wholeheartedly believe him. As afraid as she is, she trusts him when he says it will be alright. Every second they spend together makes it more difficult for her to keep her feelings to herself. Every cell in her body is calling for her to give in, but there is one much louder voice in the forefront of her mind that drowns out the hope and keeps her silent. The tug of war that is being fought inside of her is unrelenting, and the rope is being pulled so tightly that its tension causes her body to quake every time Stiles touches her. As his fingertips travel from her cheekbone to her jaw, she unsuccessfully tries to stifle the reaction he triggers.

The closer they get, the more she tenses, and her response leads Stiles to an awful, heart-wrenching conclusion – _Lydia is afraid of him_. For a week he has deluded himself into believing he could help her, but the fear in her eyes has only grown. Instead of lightening her burdens an easing her pain, the way he so desperately wants to, he is actually making everything more difficult for her. He grasps that not only is he unable to help Lydia, his very presence hurts her. The notion inflicts crushing pain in his chest. Of course, he understands why she would be frightened of him. He doesn't blame her. How could he…after the things he did, the damage he caused? He knows she won't admit it to him. Rather, she'll suffer in silence. She has made a habit of doing so, not just for the past week, but for as long as he has known her. If he confronts her, she will deny it to spare his feelings, but he can't let this continue – he can't be the reason she is suffering. He will do anything… _anything_ to make this right for her. He knows what he has to do, and now he fully grasps the unfathomable depths of heartbreak in a way he never has before. His eyes brim with tears while both his mind and heart grasp the significance of his own words… _one last thing_.

"Stiles, what is it?"

"Huh? Uh…nothing."

"You can tell me."

He nervously pokes at his lip with his tongue. "I was just realizing something. It's nothing for you to worry about. We better get going."

Lydia agrees, but with the troubling suspicion that something has shifted between the two of them. Unsure if it is the tears in her eyes or something else, for the first time, she feels like she can't see Stiles clearly. She blinks to restore her vision, but the fog is too dense and he is turning away from her…fading from view. As he leads her back into the bedroom, she grips his hand tighter, wishing that her love for him could be enough to keep him close to her and protected from harm.

Aware that their time together is short, Stiles can't bring himself to release her hand. It may be selfish and weak, but he wants – _he needs_ to grasp for every last second of closeness he can experience…before Lydia drifts away. He helps her with her coat, wishing that his love for her could be enough to erase the damage he caused. When she takes his hand again, he accepts it with a heavy heart. He feels like he has just reached the end of the dream within the nightmare he has been living.


	2. Guarded Resolve

_Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,_  
 _you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing._  
 _You must wake up with sorrow._  
 _You must speak to it till your voice_  
 _catches the thread of all sorrows_  
 _and you see the size of the cloth._  
 _Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,_  
 _only kindness that ties your shoes_  
 _and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,_  
 _only kindness that raises its head_  
 _from the crowd of the world to say_  
 _It is I you have been looking for,_  
 _and then goes with you everywhere_  
 _like a shadow or a friend._  
-Naomi Shihab Nye, 1952

* * *

Lydia's perception of everything since she and Stiles arrived at the cemetery is best described as an out-of-body experience. She has no concept of how much time has passed since they neared Allison's grave site. She felt Melissa McCall's embrace – warm, and strong, and inherently maternal. She knows she spoke to several people – Scott, Chris Argent, Kira Yukimura, Isaac Lahey, and a few of Allison's relatives who introduced themselves. She doesn't recall any of the conversations, but she knows she was straining to hear each of them over the sound of the wind rushing through her ears.

Phrases that complete strangers have casually tossed at her for one week such as _in a better place, part of a bigger plan,_ and _forever young_ …reverberate in her head. Those words provide no comfort. They merely incite fire in her chest. _What better place is there for Allison than alongside her friends and family?_ Lydia wants Allison with her, with Scott, with their tight-knit pack, with her dad, who has already lost far too much in his life. _What bigger plan could there have been for Allison, than for her to spend as many days on this earth as possible?_ She made the world better simply by being in it. _What is the good in being forever young?_ Allison's life was cut short. She should have been able to live a long life; to save people, to change the world with her grace, kindness, and determination, to have children and grow old with Scott, if that was what she wanted. _What could have been better than that?_

Lydia feels herself sinking into despair. Tears that she refuses to let escape, sting her eyes.

In a blur of grey and unrelenting gloom, what she remembers most clearly is Stiles. Stiles standing as close to her as possible. Stiles holding her hand and squeezing it tighter, precisely when she needs reassurance. She remembers the moment she moved away from him to recite the poem she chose for Allison; the same moment when her mind went completely blank. She remembers looking at Stiles, and him looking back at her, energy of his focused eyes lifting the words from her throat and drawing them across her lips as he silently mouthed them along with her. Stiles saved her – his beautiful soul, anchoring her heart to his with every syllable of that poem. He had paid attention when she was studying the lines, he listened, he remembered. She loves him more in this moment than she ever imagined she could love someone.

Now, Lydia watches as a sea of faces depart from Allison's gravesite. All that are left are six: Chris, Isaac, Melissa, Scott, Stiles, and herself. She stands between Scott and Stiles. Scott is on her left; he holds her hand firmly in his. From time to time, he lifts their joined hands to wipe tears from his eyes. She cannot look at him. He has lost his first love… _the girl he will always love_. Ever since Stiles showed her what real love is, Lydia finally understands the gravity of such a loss. She knows that Scott's heart is broken in a way that can never be mended, and her own sympathetically breaks along with his. She is grateful to him for being so good to Allison. He made her happy, he made her feel loved, he didn't shy away from her strength or independence, he understood when she needed time apart from him, and accepted it, even though it hurt him immensely. Lydia's throat tightens at the thought, but she does not cry. She can't. Not now.

Instead, she thinks of every good thing about Allison and their friendship to keep herself from crumbling. She remembers the instant connection she felt on the day they met. She remembers study sessions that turned into sleepovers, and fits of giggles that gradually morphed into hushed secrets and shared confidences. She remembers her first day back to school after she was bitten, when Allison walked beside her despite everyone's stares. She remembers her friend holding her hand as she confronted Peter Hale with questions about her banshee abilities. She remembers feeling like her childhood wish of having a sister had actually come true. She remembers when Allison told her that Stiles was going to be her date to the Winter Formal, and how his words and actions that night left a lasting impression on her heart. _Don't frown Lydia,_ she hears Allison say, _someone could be falling in love with your smile._

Stiles stands to Lydia's right. He has his arm securely wrapped around her waist. Intermittently, the pressure of his fingertips wanes and waxes against the curve of her hip, pulsing like a heartbeat. The quiet communication links her to the present – to him. It prompts her to keep breathing, if for no other reason than to stay with him. Her arm is tucked inside his jacket, where she grips a handful of his shirt so tightly that her fingers have gone numb. She leans into the crook of his shoulder drawing strength from his unwavering support.

Lydia can hardly fathom how she would have made it through the last seven days without Stiles. She is so immensely grateful to have him close. His limitless patience and constant willingness to see the best in her have given meaning to the last year of her life – a time when everything she thought she knew was flipped upside-down, a time when she departed from the ordered world of the explainable and entered into the chaotic world of the supernatural. Stiles has made all of that worth going through. He drowned out the madness with his unconditional kindness and pure heart, and in doing so, he made countless good things possible – things she never thought she would experience – like learning to put her trust into the hands of a boy who actually respects her, having someone fully understand her mind without being intimidated by it, sharing a kiss that opened her eyes and filled her atmosphere with light as bright as the sun, and falling irrevocably in love with a best friend.

Stiles feels Lydia lean into his side. The contact thaws the ice that has been crystalizing around his heart and constricting its rhythm. The effect she has on him is fiercely powerful. He has known this for years but has never been as supremely aware of it as he is in this moment. He thinks of how long he has loved her. In truth, he can't recall a time when he did not love Lydia – his understanding of love so inextricably linked with her that his mind implants her presence into memories that formed before he ever heard the name Lydia Martin. In all that time, no one else could even come close to evoking the affection he has for her. For him, _it has always been Lydia and it will always be Lydia_. His love for her expands with every breath she takes. It strengthens with each of her words, expressions, and movements. He can feel it growing inside of him, saturating his heart with warmth, teaching the muscle to stretch and transform, until it braces against ribs which feel too weak to contain the battered sinew within his chest. Stiles loves Lydia so much that it hurts, but he wouldn't have it any other way. Even within the pain, he is never more alive than when she is with him.

When he turns his head to glance at Lydia, the figure beside her comes into view. Stiles stomach twists as he recognizes all of the pain he caused Scott, both physically and emotionally. He can feel a heavy blade in his hands, slick with his best friend – his brother's blood. He remembers the rush of power that flowed through his veins and the agonizing guilt that was trapped behind it as his own hands yielded to the Nogitsune's will. Though he wasn't with Scott when it happened, he can see him cradling Allison's crumpled form on the ground in the middle of the night. He can hear him crying, then and now.

He suddenly remembers how brave Scott was when Allison broke up with him. He was able to give her the time she needed to heal. Stiles doesn't know how he would survive the same. The mere thought of being without Lydia is about to bring him to his knees. The notion gives him a deeper appreciation for the inner strength Scott possesses. It's more, he thinks, than he can ever hope to equal. Scott has lost Allison, his first love… _the girl he will always love_ , yet somehow, he is still holding on, still keeping his pack together, still standing. Another swell of guilt hits Stiles. He thinks if he had been stronger, Scott would never be suffering as he is right now. He believes that his own weakness has hurt two of the people he loves most in the world. There is no way to undo the harm and no way he can possibly be worthy of their forgiveness. There is so much activity in his mind, it takes Stiles several minutes to observe that almost everyone has left.

After a long silence, Chris moves towards the coffin. He bends down and kisses it, letting his hand linger over the place where Allison's heart would be. When he stands in front of Lydia, she observes that the firm resolve in his expression has begun to break. He sets his hands on her shoulders to steady himself. Such a rare display of vulnerability from Chris is inconceivably profound to her. Her lips begin to tremble, but she focuses on Stiles's hand contracting against her hip and maintains her composure.

"Take as long as you need," Chris says, as he kisses the top of her head.

Lydia watches him move over to Scott, Melissa, and Isaac. The four are leaving together. She feels Scott tighten his grip on her hand one more time before releasing it. Then he moves around to give her a hug. Her sadness multiplies when she notices how much softer it is than his typical bear-hug type of embrace; the sentiment is there, but a great deal of energy has been drained from it. She squeezes him with her free arm, never letting go of Stiles in the process. Scott shifts over to his best friend. They hug for a long time. All the while, Stiles maintains his hold on Lydia – his arm solid as steel against her back. When the boys separate, Scott takes a prolonged look at the coffin, then steps away with his head down and shoulders low, sandwiched between Chris and Melissa for support.

Without Scott next to her, Lydia's right side is alarmingly cold. The air temperature has dropped considerably, and she begins to shiver. Stiles protectively reaches across to capture her other hand and pull her towards him. She has been staring at the ground, but she misses his face, so she lifts her head to look at him. His expression is stricken with all of the upset of the past few weeks. It mirrors the pain that is already threatening to devour her and amplifies it, because there is nothing worse for Lydia than to see Stiles hurting. His brows are gathered, and his soulful brown eyes have darkened – trademark golden flecks appear to have vanished. His clothing is too neat, too pristine. She wants to loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt, so he looks more like _her Stiles_. He is handsome as ever…but changed – and it scares her. _Don't you leave me too,_ she almost says. She thinks he must have read her mind because in a split-second flash, he is _her Stiles_ again. His tired eyes soften and glint with gold as he gingerly uses his palms to push past fly-away strands that the wind has been whipping across her face.

"It's just us now," he tells her.

He traces Lydia's freckles with his fingertips; the warmth from his hands melting the ice from her cheeks and emancipating her frozen expression. She knows he is telling her it's okay to let the grief escape, and she trusts him – so she does. The sob that has been clinging to the back of her throat finally crawls out.

Stiles wants Lydia to release the sorrow she has been bottling up. He knows she needs to, but he is not prepared for the sheer agony when it comes. The sound she makes is raw and unguarded in a way he has never heard, and it makes him cry too. He draws her nearer, knowing full well that her flight instinct could awaken at any time. He is relieved when she doesn't attempt to turn away from him.

Lydia doesn't want to run. It's okay for Stiles to see her cry. With Stiles, she doesn't have to hide; she wants to see him, and she wants him to see her. She knows they can help each other. When he pulls her into a hug, she melts into it…reshapes herself around him, wishing never to let go of him or the love he nurtured inside her when the light from his eyes pierced through the shadowed corners of her heart and encouraged it to blossom. A kind of love she didn't believe existed, until he showed her it was right in front of her. Lydia lifts her head from Stiles's shoulder. His eyes meet hers with such unrestricted intensity that she quite literally feels their souls connect. She parts her lips in a gasp. The words are hanging at the tip of her tongue. She is mindful of the weight of them – nearly ready to spill over. _I love you. I love you. I love you._

"Stiles…I…"

He thinks he perceives something other than fear in Lydia's eyes, which are glowing with the purest light and dripping with adoration that shines through her tears. It looks like love. Stiles is so hungry for it to be real that he doesn't trust his own judgement. He is so conflicted – caught between need and want, hope and despair – that he convinces himself it is a mirage; he sees what he wants to see…nothing more. Maybe, he thinks, what he is detecting is actually his own love for her, reflecting back. He realizes anything she says will sound like good-bye and he is not ready yet.

"Shh…I've got you."

Stiles lets the words fall out and it feels like a promise – one that he knows he can't keep. He tries to tell himself that it's not the same as a lie, but he fails. He is reminded of another lie of omission he is guilty of keeping from Lydia, and it haunts him. He doesn't think he is worthy of looking at her, let alone holding her so intimately, but he needs the illusion that he is somehow able to help her just a bit longer, so he clutches her tighter.

Lydia thinks maybe he understands what she was about to say. Stiles has always understood her better than anyone. She believes that even if he hasn't figured it out yet, he must be close. It is comforting and terrifying at the same time. She convinces herself that declaring her love at the wrong time will be the beginning of the end, so she remains silent and grips him more forcefully.

Exhausted from weeks of never-ending hardship, they both sink to the ground, wielding what remains of their strength to cling to each other…for as long as possible.

Afternoon fades to evening, with the inevitability of the darkening grey sky above and the unforgiving cold earth below. The rest of the world fades away. All that remains is a bleak and pallid backdrop, sliced sharply by a spray of red roses. Red – just like Allison's nails, just like the blood she shed for her friends.

Lydia cries. She cries until the front of Stiles's shirt is soaked through with her tears. Stiles massages her back and coils the ends of her hair around his fingertips, all the while whispering tender words in her ear. They hold fast, entangled in a mound of grief and unspoken love, until they are burned out, listless, and aching for bed.


	3. Under the Waves

Hours later, they are sitting inside the warm Jeep. Lydia keeps her eyes on Stiles. He has not looked at her since they left the cemetery, and it makes her uneasy. Though he is mere inches from her, Stiles seems to be miles away. An image of his silhouette, masked by thick fog, enters her mind…sending a cold tremor down her spine.

 _They are in the tunnels and Stiles has collapsed beneath her. Outside, Allison raises her bow and arrow. She fires before she falters. She saves Isaac, she takes down an Oni, but she doubles over and drops to the ground._

Lydia is afraid to blink for fear that Stiles will vanish. She reaches for his hand, but his eyes are set straight ahead, and he doesn't notice. She tries to say his name, but growing apprehension has silenced her. The gentle jostling of the truck that normally soothes her, now sets her nerves on edge. She can't shake the unwelcome warning that her heart appears to be communicating – signaling with every beat, like Morse code. It transmits the same message that has haunted her dreams every night for seven days. It tells her she lost _both_ Allison and Stiles with one swift motion of a sword.

The drive to Lydia's house feels shorter than usual. Stiles knew it would be that way. Whenever he wants time to slow down, it speeds up. As he pulls into the driveway and shuts the engine, the overwhelming dread that has been persistently creeping into his body takes complete hold. It started way down in his toes, as they stood in the cemetery. Now has risen all of the way up to his head, making him dizzy and unfocused, while also hindering the rest of his body with a dull ache and a sense of heaviness. He reluctantly gets out of the Jeep with the intention of opening the passenger's side door for Lydia, but she is already waiting for him outside; high heels dangling in her right hand, and her left patiently extended towards him. He accepts the gesture, but each step towards the house…each step up the long staircase…each step closer to her bedroom is more difficult than the last. It is as though he is manipulating his muscles through water – the kind of deep, rough water that pushes him three lengths backward to counter each movement forward.

As they cross the threshold to her room, his ears are pounding with every beat of his heart. He swallows with difficulty, lifts his eyes to her…and then…time slows down. She is gazing at him with such tenderness, and even though she is utterly wrecked with grief, she still looks like beauty personified. She tugs at his hand, but it might as well be his heart. It solidifies his resolve to make things better for her. No matter how much pain it causes him – Lydia is worth it. Her touch draws the led-like feeling out of his bones and Stiles realizes he will remember this moment for as long as he lives.

He stares for the duration of a few shallow breaths, gathering the courage to speak to her. "Do you want anything?" he asks. "You barely ate this morning."

She shakes her head. "I don't think I can eat. I just want to lie down."

"Okay. Why don't you get changed? I could go make you some tea. You need to at least drink something."

"Alright," she replies, barely enough air in her lungs to raise a whisper.

She lets his hand slide out of hers as he silently helps her out of her coat, then she treads over to her dresser to gather her pajamas. When she turns to face Stiles, his eyes are glued to the door, his hands are shoved into his pockets, and he is nibbling at his lower lip. She waits, biting her tongue to silence herself, terrified of the things she might say to keep him from leaving. Her feet are rooted to the carpet. Not wanting to put additional space between them, she continues to stand still, clutching the pile of clothing to her chest and hoping it will muffle the sound of her quickening heart. She worries that when she comes back into the room, he will be gone – but as usual, Stiles understands her.

"It's okay. I'll just go make the tea and come right back."

Lydia knows that he would never lie to her. Stiles isn't like everyone else – she trusts him. She crosses in front of him as she walks to the bathroom, glancing over her shoulder when she gets to the door. Stiles flashes one of his trademark half-smiles at her. It's almost as perfect as his full smile, the kind she hardly gets to see anymore. It gives her the reassurance she needs to turn away and close the door behind her.

She is barely out of the room for two seconds, when Stiles shrugs out of his jacket – it's too restricting. He fidgets with his necktie. He is sure Lydia didn't tie it as tight as it feels. Pacing along the edge of the area rug, he tries to release the nervous tension that causes his eyes to mist, makes his stomach lurch, and compels him to move a bit too compulsively to appear natural. Fearing that he is on the verge of a panic attack, Stiles forces himself to stop the repetitive behavior and heads downstairs.

In the silence of the empty house, his shoes sound noisily against the oak staircase; the clamor like a ticking clock, signaling that his impeding agony is growing closer and closer. In the expansive kitchen, a simple task like brewing a cup of tea becomes an ordeal. He can't remember where anything is, he is too clumsy; he is making too much noise – he thinks he woke Prada. As he waits for the electric teapot to boil, Stiles sits on the cold tile floor with his head in his hands, trying to figure how in the hell he can possibly let go of the girl who has become the center of his world. When he detects a small amount of pressure on his knee, he lifts his head to find that Prada is standing on her hind legs, calmly waiting for him to pet her. He picks her up. Her warm furry little body provides some comfort. He takes a breath, gets to his feet, finishes the tea with steadier hands, and carries both the tea and Prada upstairs to Lydia's room.

Lydia prepares for bed, her heart racing erratically. Being unable to see Stiles does nothing to ease her anxiety. It pushes her to move faster so she can prove to herself that he is still there. She undresses, removes the bobby pins from her hair, and piles her long waves into a bun at the crown of her head. She takes a quick shower, wraps a thick towel around herself, and brushes her teeth, taking extra care to scrub the awful taste from her tongue. After releasing her hair from the bun and combing it thoroughly, she slides into the dove-grey lace panties, pink knit leggings, and over-sized creamy-white sweater that have all been warming on the radiator. Then, she briefly examines her tired reflection, reminds herself to breathe, and opens the door.

Upon entering the bedroom, her eyes reflexively search for Stiles. He is standing by her bed. His arms are folded across his chest, and he is lightly tapping his index and middle fingers on his bicep. She notes the difference in his appearance – jacket removed, loosened tie, rolled up sleeves, and he has also obviously had his hands in his hair because it is restored to its unkempt glory. He looks like _her Stiles_ again. Her heart races, willing her to follow it, and she wants to tell him _right now_ – to run to him, throw her arms around him, and tell him she loves him with her whole heart. She wants to ask if everything he has shown her over the past week…over the past year…if it is real. She wants to hear him say that _yes, he loves her too_. She realizes that he is looking at the framed photo on her nightstand. It's her favorite one – a candid of Stiles and herself, which Allison had mysteriously taken several months ago and gifted to her soon after. In a split second, her mind seizes back the reigns. _Allison. Allison is dead…because of me,_ she thinks…and she says nothing.

When Stiles hears Lydia enter, he startles from the unpleasant stream of consciousness that has been torturing him with what ifs, should haves, and impossible scenarios. He turns to face her, and she takes his breath away. With the light bouncing off the mirror behind her, Lydia is angelic – glowing strawberry-blonde tresses, sweater cascading off her fair-skinned shoulder, left eyebrow arched, eyes glistening, and lips parted. She looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn't.

He quickly crosses the room, hastened by the pressing need to be near her, but as soon as he gets close, a wall of guilt springs up from the ground between them. Stiles wants to wrap his arms around Lydia, to tell her how much he loves her and hear her say it back, to kiss her with all of the passion he feels for her, then bury his face in her hair and breathe her in...but he doesn't. He reminds himself to slow down, to be careful with her – she is precious to him; the most treasured creation ever to grace his existence.

"Hey, you must be exhausted. Come on," he says in a low voice, linking his pinky with hers and guiding her towards the bed.

The way he touches her is familiar. It reminds her of a winter day...when she was just eleven years old, but after so much closeness, it feels too reserved, and it makes Lydia's heart sink. She clasps her free hand around his forearm to counter the lack of contact. She spots the cup of hot tea on her nightstand, next to their photo, and it looks like comfort. The bed is already neatly turned down, and Prada has curled up next to an extra blanket – the burgundy one that Lydia always drapes over Stiles when he falls asleep studying in her room. She remembers his expression when she woke beside him this morning and the two mornings before that. She thinks she saw love in his eyes...and it was beautiful. She remembers his left arm draped over her waist, heavy and protective. She remembers his lips gently lingering on her forehead – more comfort.

Lydia is brought out of her daydream when she feels Stiles withdraw until his arm slides out from under her hand. She tries to catch him, but he is too fast. The physical separation galvanizes the warning she has so ardently been trying to ignore. It twists the knot in her stomach more intensely, until she is off-balance. Her body sways, but she catches the edge of the bed with her palms and sits down before she falls.

"Lydia, are you alright?" His voice spikes with concern.

She shakes her head. No, she isn't. Not when he keeps getting more distant.

Stiles steps towards the bed and ever so lightly places one hand on her covered shoulder, while handing her the tea from the nightstand with the other. "Here, drink this. It will help."

He is burning to sit beside her, to pull her into his lap, and hold her as close as possible. He knows he should be grateful simply to breathe the same air she is breathing, but it hurts to have to withhold his affections.

She takes a few sips, relishing in the transfer of heat from the cup to her palms, as well as the warmth of the liquid gliding down her sore throat. She can sense Stiles looking down at her. He is towering over her again, but unlike earlier in the day, now it makes him seem far away. She wants him closer.

"You should lie down," he says softly, taking the cup from her hands.

Lydia complies, rotating onto her side and leaving room for Stiles to lie next to her. When he doesn't join her, she reaches out for him. She is disappointed when he kneels alongside the bed. She wants to ask why he is refusing her but is fearful of the response. He finally concedes when she stretches out more insistently. She watches him as he grasps her hand tightly and weaves their fingers together, but his eyes don't meet hers. It is getting harder and harder for Lydia to see Stiles clearly. She glances over at the windows wondering if any have been left open, allowing all the dreary fog that has been hovering in the air to sneak into her room and hide him from view. All of the windows are closed, so she hopes against hope that her blurred vision is due to exhaustion, rather than accepting it as evidence of her worst fear. Unfortunately, with every second it becomes more difficult to combat the warning that keeps ringing through her heart.

"Stiles, _please_."

He knows what she is asking, but he can't comprehend why. He thinks it is because she is trying to make things right between them, to forget all the hurt he caused, to stop being afraid of him – and he loves her even more for it. He thinks he shouldn't move, shouldn't give into his unrelenting need to hold her. It will make it that much harder when he has to stop, but there is nothing he can deny her – absolutely nothing. _How do you let go of the girl who has become the center of your world?_ he asks himself again. This time, he has the answer: _You hold her one last time and then you turn to leave, because it will save her._ He stands, removes his shoes, and slides into bed with her.

For Lydia, his acquiescence is a hollow victory. Stiles is still not close enough. Her hands latch onto his tie. She concentrates on the smooth fabric at her fingertips, gripping a bit more vehemently than she intends. Her lungs tighten to match the tension in her hands. Each inhale is marked by the awful sting of _wanting_ …of _needing_ to be with him, but not being able to speak the truth, and it is equal to the sting of Allison's death. It is steadily penetrating her heart with a blade of ice, pumping frost throughout her body with every strained beat. She shivers and gasps for air with his name on her lips.

"Stiles… _help me_."

Releasing his tie, she wipes her eyes with unsteady hands. She hopes he understands what she is trying to express from those three little words. She means that she loves him with all of her heart and soul, and that she trusts him above anyone else. She means he is everything to her.

Her request both uplifts and torments him. It means the world to him that she has asked him so openly. It is no secret that Lydia does not like to ask for help. On occasion, she reluctantly accepts it, but she never asks for it. She sees it as a sign of weakness in herself, but no one else. To Stiles, her strength is obvious – it is in everything she does, and it has been especially apparent over the last seven days.

Three little words. _Stiles help me._ Those words have never been more significant, because when she speaks them with such unassuming vulnerability in her eyes, Stiles can see the true depths of her struggle, and it is so much more than he had already feared.

Lydia wets her lips and continues. "It hurts…I can't…I can't breathe… I feel _so much_ …it hurts…and I can't. I'm afraid…no matter what I do, I can't make it stop…it just keeps getting worse. I can't do it. I can't see…I _need_ you to help me, Stiles."

She means that she loves him so much that it hurts. That the feelings she has for him knock her off her feet from the force of their own weight; they leave her breathless and shaky, but still she craves more…always more. She means that she feels their connection whenever she looks at him and that it heightens whenever he touches her – when that feeling of _wanting more_ rushes over, making her feel dizzy and helpless…but also whole and alive. She means that she is so intensely afraid of losing him that she can't speak her love. She means that the more she reaches for him, the more it seems like he is slipping through her fingers…but she wants it to stop. She wants him to stay with her. She means that the closer she tries to get to him, the more the fear of losing him obscures her vision. She wants him to lift the fog, to help her see again by understanding how much she loves him and by just being with her.

He hears that she is afraid of him. He hears that being near him hurts her, and that every second they spend together magnifies her pain. He hears that she can't be around him, that it pains her to see him, and that she needs him to help her – which he assumes he can only do by staying away, by giving her space.

"Okay, Lydia. Okay…I'll help you. I don't want you to be scared… It will be alright."

Stiles pulls her towards him. Perhaps it's wrong to do so, but this is going to be his last chance to hold her and he can't resist. He needs her close to him, one more time, so he can memorize every detail – the scent of her hair that is draped over his shoulder, the softness of her skin against his, her eyelashes tickling his jaw with every blink, her breath breezing across his throat, her ribs connecting with his, the rhythm of her heart influencing his to beat in harmony, the dainty ridges of her spine under his hands, her knees pressing into his thighs, her bare feet…which are always cold…grazing his shins. He wants to stay like this forever, and he thinks he can't.

She leans into him, grateful for the closeness. Working to persuade herself that Stiles is still with her, Lydia focuses on the sensation of his body wrapped around hers – his cheek resting on her forehead, the warm curve of his neck where she has buried her face, the scent of him filling her lungs, her ear pressed to his strong shoulder, his ribs against hers, the thumping of his heart calling for hers to match it, his firm abdomen making contact with her belly and stirring a warmth inside that spreads all over her body, his long legs hooked over hers. She wants to stay like this forever, but she thinks she won't be able to.

"I don't know why it's like this…I'm so sorry. I tried. Please understand," Lydia tries to explain.

She means that she is sorry that she can't tell him she loves him. She wants to – so badly, because he deserves to hear it, but she can't. She laces their fingers together, hands slick with tears, fighting to hold onto him as they slip with moisture.

He brings their joined hands to his lips and kisses the back of her hand repeatedly. He will never be able to get past the awful things he did, and now he believes that neither can Lydia. He understands it, but what he views as confirmation of his worst fear crushes him all the same.

"Don't be sorry. None of this is your fault. I understand."

Her eyes search his face in amazement. "You do…don't you? I _knew_ you would."

She scoots closer to him – as close as she can get without completely losing sight of his eyes. Then she touches his face with her free hand, delicately passing her fingertips over the moles along his jaw, before tilting her head closer and grazing her lips against his cheek. She knew Stiles would understand her. _She knew it._

Stiles sees the relief flooding into her eyes, and though it consoles him, he can't bare the distance in their closeness. Lips that once kissed his – even if it was only to stop a panic attack – the sensation of those lips making feather-light contact with his skin, now causes immense pain. Lips that once breathed life into his lungs, passion into his heart, and stillness into his soul, now steal it all back. He is so tormented with heartbreak that he can't cry.

"Stiles…you're the one who _always_ figures it out," she whispers.

He remembers the last time she said that to him, the way she looked at him that day, the trust she had in him, how tightly she held onto him. It feels like a lifetime ago; when they were moving forward, building something real – _together_ …or so he thought. He can't take anymore – looking back hurts too much. He shakes the memory from his mind, the optimism it previously offered now taunting him as he nears the end of his time with her.

To Stiles, Lydia has just said good-bye to him in the kindest way imaginable. It provides some solace that she doesn't resent him for all the damage he caused. that she cares enough to have tried to get past her fear of him, that she feels badly it didn't work. Part of him wants to hang onto the smallest shred of hope that they can be together. He wonders if they could start over. It took so many years to get here, but he would be willing to do it all over again if he could just keep her close. It takes every last fiber of his strength to keep from dropping his head to her shoulder and begging her to try one more time. There is such an open willingness in her expression, he thinks it might actually work but he squashes the temptation to ask. He can't do that to her – intentionally put her through that kind of pain, make her relive it…for him. He loves her too much to ask her to suffer just to spare himself the heartbreak of losing her. He tries to take comfort in the fact that he can at least fulfill his desire to help her, even if it is not in the way that he had hoped.

"Shh…I'll always understand. You need to rest now, Lydia. Just close your eyes, okay? Rest...and then…tomorrow..." He is unable to finish the sentence. He can't imagine what tomorrow will be like. Tomorrow…without _his Lydia_.

She doesn't want to close her eyes – she wants to look at Stiles. She is waiting for her eyes to clear, so she can see him better. She resists, but they are so tired and so heavy with grief that she can't keep them open a second longer. Lulled by the impression that Stiles understood what she could not verbalize, Lydia drifts to sleep with her head on his chest, the last of her wayward tears trickling onto his shirt, and the familiar sound of his heartbeat humming against her ear.

When he is sure Lydia is asleep, Stiles gingerly untangles himself from her. _Careful_ , he reminds himself. C _areful, don't wake her…don't hurt her anymore_. The same dread that plagued him since they arrived makes its presence felt once more. The dull ache that hindered his movements earlier is only made different by the fact that it is somehow worse than before. He hadn't thought it was possible. Clearly, it is.

He slides on his shoes, picks up his jacket, and stands at the side of the bed contemplating how this could have been avoided. Of course, he blames himself. He knows he should go, but he has no will to move. He feels rooted to the floor, afraid to take his eyes off of Lydia because it's the last time he is going to be able to see her like this.

 _His leg is caught inside a steel trap. It hurts so badly, and he is so very cold. The darkness is creeping in, crawling through his open wounds, leaving a trail of ice in its path as it burrows deep into his veins…waiting to take hold._

He averts his eyes and thinks he had better get used to doing so, because after everything, there is no way he is going to be able to get this close to her, to look at her face – a face that is a reflection of the limitless beauty inside of her – without falling apart. She is so still that she doesn't seem real. He thinks maybe she isn't. Perhaps he dreamed her into his consciousness, and now it's time to wake up. He leans down to press one last kiss to her forehead. She shifts underneath him like a magnet as a small moan escapes her parted lips. He would wonder if he will ever be so profoundly connected to anyone else, except he already knows the answer to that question, and it is a resounding _no._ For Stiles, it's Lydia… _always Lydia_ …and no one else. His eyes find the framed photo of them as he slowly turns to leave, and he wishes he could go back to that day just to see her smile at him like that…one more time.

* * *

Stiles sits in his Jeep, ignorant of how much time has passed since he locked the front door of the Martin house behind him. He already regrets not having stayed longer. As he glances over at the passenger's seat, Lydia's seat, he can almost see her beside him – hesitant in a shiny satin dress when he takes her to the Winter Formal, curious in a floral skirt as he drives her to school, determined in an ivory sweater after arguing about a risk she is too willing to take for someone who doesn't love her, carefree in an emerald-green blouse as she sings with the radio and brushes fly-away strands from her face that the wind has set free from her topknot. He remembers early morning and late afternoon sun highlighting her hair, and moonlight and starlight glowing against her skin. The downpour of memories fills the Jeep as Stiles becomes submerged in the despair of knowing that he will be robbed of any such similar experiences…because Lydia will not sit there again.

It is then that all of the classic symptoms creep in; the head-spinning terror, trembling hands, sweating, chest pain, trouble breathing, and the complete inability to control any of it – he is having a panic attack. He is trapped, and he can't unfasten his seat belt, and _she_ is not next to him. Her words echo in his mind – _Stiles, help me_ , and he wonders who will help _him_ now.

He gets his answer immediately. He hears Lydia's voice – the same as it was that day in the locker room. _I read once that...holding your breath could stop a panic attack. So…when I kissed you...you held your breath._

Stiles holds his breath. He holds it until his lungs feel like they will burst, but it doesn't help because Lydia is not there. Desperately wheezing, he reaches into his jacket and removes the plastic case from his pocket. He opens it and pours Lydia's silver beads into his hand. He clutches them and thinks of her, and remembers what it feels like to kiss her perfect pink lips, to see her smile and know he was the reason, to fit her hand, so small and delicate, inside of his, to hold her body so close that they feel like one being, to fall asleep with her snuggled into his chest, to wake up the same way and see her face before anything else comes into focus.

Suddenly, he can smell a trace of her perfume drifting up from his shirt – vanilla and flowers – _Lydia_. His breathing slows and steadies. He returns the beads to their container and drives home with an unrelenting twinge beneath his ribs that has nothing to do with his panic attack and everything to do with the fact that he now has to confront the reality of a world without Lydia – the girl who tethers him to the earth and makes him feel alive.


	4. World Without Reason

**Two Hours Later:** March 25

Lydia awakens from a vivid nightmare with a gasp. A sharp pain causes her to clutch at her sternum in the pitch dark of her bedroom. She reflexively reaches in front of her while a familiar name parts from her lips – _Stiles_ – her light in the darkness.

 _He is not there._

She extends her hand over the sheets on his side of the bed. They are unforgivably cold, yet the frigid contact feels like a burn. She quickly pulls her hand away.

 _He is not there…and he hasn't been for a while._

It can't be more than a few hours since she fell asleep, and _Stiles was there_ – she remembers. _He was there._ He was holding her so close, a strong arm encircling her rib cage, a large hand caressing her face, and she was warm and safe, and so relieved that he understood.

 _Where is he?_

As she sits up to check the time, blurry red digits that read 1:31 a.m. glow on her alarm clock. She blinks, but her tired eyes, which are stinging with tears, refuse to clear. She moans with the awareness that her body is tense and aching all over. Her arms and legs feel as heavy as lead, her neck and back are sore, her throat is parched, and her head throbs with pulsing discomfort. Lifting a shaky hand to push her hair from her face, she is met with beads of perspiration that cling to her temples and dampen her hairline. Her loose-fitting sweater has adhered to her spine with the moisture that has collected on her skin, and she is conscious of a narrow river trickling down her heaving chest. The sensation of being completely and utterly alone strikes her heart like a lightning bolt, leaving her stunned. It weighs down her lungs, so she can't fully expand them. It tightens the knot in her stomach. She shakes her head and silently reminds herself, _He wouldn't have just left._

"Stiles?" she repeats.

Lydia switches on her crystal lamp, squinting at the harsh artificial brightness it creates. She scans the cavernous space, rubbing her eyes and pursing her lips. It merely gives her confirmation of what she already knows to be true.

 _He is not there._

When her weary eyes are finally able to focus, she glances at her nightstand where her half-empty cup of tea still resides, next to the photo of Stiles and herself. It looks much less comforting now. Lydia lifts the cup and for a few seconds, stares into honey-colored liquid that reminds her of Stiles's eyes. She gulps down the remainder, even though it's cold and tastes awful to her that way. The wetness against her throat at least grants her the ability to swallow.

As she sets the cup aside, her gaze lands on a small box and the sight of it relaxes her. Stiles has a habit of leaving Lydia notes. Ever since the night she pushed Stiles and Scott out of the way of a blazing fireball, torn pieces of notebook paper, etched in ink, have been materializing throughout her day. The messages range from a simple _Hi_ …to a sweet _You are so smart,_ or _You look extra pretty today_ …to a cynical _What the hell is a cosine and when will I ever actually use it?_ Sometimes she has to stifle a laugh when they are marked with amusing comments such as _I think Derek Hale is in love_ _with me. Don't you?_ Others instill worry in her. Those are the kind that read _WE NEED TO TALK_ in big bold print.

Stiles never signs the notes. He doesn't have to. Lydia recognizes his unique scrawl and it makes her heart beat faster. He leaves them everywhere and anywhere he can – slides one in her locker, casually drops another on her desk during class, sneaks one into her handbag or onto her lunch tray. Each one unexpected. Each one igniting a spark within an otherwise mundane moment. She loves them all, but her favorites are those she finds scattered around her bedroom after a full day of research or a late-night study session. She always discovers those notes later on – pressed into a book, tucked under her pillow, tied to Prada's collar with blue string…because blue is pretty, rather than unsolved. Sometimes the notes appear days later…hidden in the pockets of her cardigan sweaters, slipped into one of her boots, or folded compactly enough to fit into her jewelry box; these are the buried treasures that reveal themselves to her slowly – just like her love for him.

Lydia is committed to saving every single note. She keeps them safe in the embossed paper box that resides next to their photo. Opening the box, she carefully runs her hands through the confetti of paper and dried lilac blossoms it contains. It reminds her that _Stiles was here_ , that he thinks about her, that she matters to him _. He wouldn't have just left_ , she repeats to herself.

She closes the box and takes a second look at the tabletop...searching. But there is no note to be seen. When a flash of metal catches her eye, Lydia suddenly feels foolish for not having thought to check her phone. She realizes that Stiles probably didn't want to wake her; he wouldn't have wanted to fumble around in the dark looking for paper and a pen. She quickly lifts the device from the nightstand.

 _He is not there._

Her heart sinks. No texts. No emails. No voicemail. Nothing. Nothing to explain his absence. Worry begins to take hold of her. _What if Scott needed him…or his dad?_ _What if something happened?_... _Some other awful thing that can't be explained by sense or reason._ As a flood of upset rises in her chest, she catches her quivering lip in her teeth and bites down. The pain snaps her out of the developing panic. She thinks she must be more tired than she thought, not to have considered that Stiles could be downstairs. Pushing out an abbreviated breath, she slides out from under the covers. It is a relief to be free of the confining heat of her side of the bed. Phone in hand, she crosses her room and opens the door. _He wouldn't have just left_ , she thinks once again.

"Stiles?" she calls.

 _He is not there._

She steps out into the long dark tunnel and heads for the steps. The tightness in her muscles begins to build. A hushed sound from behind makes her jump. She turns abruptly to find Prada at her heels, innocently looking up at her with perked ears and a wagging tail. Lydia lets out a sigh and rubs her face with her hands.

"Pra-da...you scared me," she admits, shaking her head.

She continues towards the stairs with Prada following alongside. An impending sense of urgency rises within her as she descends the steps. She spots a glow of yellow light emanating from the kitchen. _He wouldn't have just left_ – it's beginning to feel like a mantra. She calls out for him.

"Stiles…are you there?"

 _He is not there._

While she proceeds to search the entire first floor of the house, the voice that has been telling her that Stiles would never leave without saying something to her gets quieter and far less convincing. Her vision is blurring with each second that passes.

She remembers her phone and decides to call him. She pulls up her speed-dial list and the first name she sees gives her pause. A droplet lands on the screen directly over the letters that spell _Allison_. _Allison is gone._ Lydia's free hand instinctively moves to her cheeks, which are wet with tears that she didn't know were falling. She lets the grief in – lets her face crumple underneath her fingertips as she counts to three. One…two…three. Then she takes another light breath, scrolls to Stiles's number, selects it, puts the phone to her ear, and waits. It rings…one...two…three…four times…then it connects. Her heart leaps…and stutters within half of a beat.

 _Hey, it's Stiles and you missed me..._

 _He is not there – that's his voicemail._

Lydia stands in the kitchen once more, though she doesn't recall getting there. The tile floor has made her bare feet numb with cold. Her dampened sweater, that only minutes ago made her feel too hot, now intensifies the chill that has crept up her spine. She shivers. _He left. He left, and he didn't say anything, or leave a note, or send a text, or call. Something must have happened._ It has become work to convince herself of this now, because the nagging sensation she had earlier in the evening has returned. It told her that something was different.

She moves to the picture window in the living room, wipes the foggy pane with her sleeve, and peers through the glass. As expected, the streetlamp illuminates an empty space where the Jeep should be. The black hole of pavement glistens with dew, it sparkles like his eyes and it taunts her.

 _He is not there._

She pushes the unpleasant thought from her mind. _He wouldn't have just left,_ she insists. Lydia is about to call Scott because she is sincerely worried that something terrible has happened, but instead she decides to call Stiles one more time. She needs to hear _his_ voice. Her eyes hesitate over the name Allison before she selects his number…and waits. It rings…one...two…three times. The call connects, and Lydia holds her breath…

 _But he is not there._

Instead, she hears the voice of a girl on the other end.

"Hello," the girl says.

"Kira?" she questions. _Maybe he is with Scott and Kira. It doesn't sound like her, but who else…?_

"No, this is Malia."

Lydia jolts backwards and ends the call with a quick tap of her thumb. _Malia Tate. It is almost two in the morning. It is almost two in the morning…and Malia is answering Stiles's phone._

Stunned, she picks up Prada, who has remained by her side, and slowly walks back upstairs. She sets her pup on the bed and sits next to her. The terror from her nightmare has infiltrated her waking hours. As she sits frozen in disbelief, she can feel the world tilt on its axis. Nothing is what she thought it was. _Stiles is gone. He left me. He left with no explanation. He promised to help me, and he left. He is with someone else. Everyone leaves, but Stiles is supposed to be different. Turns out he isn't._

It feels like blasphemy to think ill of him. _But he has always – always — been so good to me._ _There is no reason for him to be gone. It doesn't make sense._ She needs to know why. She needs an explanation, so she can analyze it, hold it up to a bright light, put it under a microscope, dissect it, pull it apart…until it looks the way she feels, but Stiles is not there to give her one.

 _What could have changed? There is no reason for him to be gone._ Unless…it has to do with what she said to him. She begged him to understand her, and she thought he did…the way he always does, but now Lydia considers that maybe she was wrong…or maybe it's worse than that…maybe Stiles did understand, and that is why he left.

 _Maybe he doesn't love me. I opened up too much, let him in too much. He saw the real me – broken, and tainted, and unworthy of someone so good – and he doesn't want me. Maybe he had already moved on…and all of the love I saw, and felt, and heard was actually…pity. He has a good heart. He felt sorry for me, so he stayed until the funeral – Allison's funeral. Now it is over, and he wants to get on with his life – his life without me. So, he left. Stiles left...and he's not coming back._

For a while, Lydia battles between believing that the love she saw in his eyes, felt in his touch, and heard in his words was real…and then being painfully convinced that she imagined it.

 _He held me so tightly._ (He loves me.)

 _But he left._ (He loves me not.)

 _He wiped away my tears._

 _But he left._

 _He told me he'd be devastated._

 _But he left._

 _He kissed me back._

 _But he left._

 _He made the sun come out_.

 _But he left._

 _He gave me lilacs._

 _But he left._

 _He told me I was smart and beautiful._

 _But he left._

 _He said he would always understand._

 _But he left._

Lydia can practically see daisy petals scattering over the carpet. She ends on _he loves me not_ …and decides that it's her fault. She must have done something wrong. She leaned on him too much, let him see her ugly scars. She needs him too much. She loves him too much. Now, she is a cliché – a girl who clung to a boy like he was going to be her salvation and only managed to scare him away.

The fissure that cut across Lydia's heart when Allison drew her last breath is beginning to branch out. She can feel the muscles of her heart stretching, tearing, coming apart into a fully-fledged rift. It hurts so deeply. She can't breathe.

She clutches at her chest gasping and attempting to massage an unbearable ache with the heels of her hand. Her fingers make contact with a loose thread of creamy white yarn from her sweater. She looks down at it curiously. _What does this color mean?_ she wonders. _It's not solved or unsolved, it's not to-be-determined or pretty. Maybe, it means undesirable, or unloved, or just plain insignificant._ She picks at the thread until she can loop it around her finger. Continuing to pull at the slackened fiber, she watches it unravel from its mate – the one to which it should have been permanently anchored. She coils the yarn more tightly, until there is a visible hole in the center of her sweater.

One thread. One single thread that had been woven so deeply into the knit, making the whole stronger – complete. One single thread that has now pulled away and weakened the stability of the cloth; its absence ruining the entire piece, turning it into something marred, frayed, unwanted – something people discard or leave behind. Like her.

Exhausted and bleary-eyed, Lydia releases the thread and slips under the uncomfortable cold sheets. She spends the next few hours beside herself with grief, unable to sleep, aching for the dream inside the nightmare she had been living. The place where even though she was immeasurably heartbroken over the loss of her best friend, she was able to experience the pure and innocent bliss of falling asleep next to Stiles every evening and waking up slowly with his arms surrounding her every morning. She knew something so perfect couldn't last. She just didn't think it would end so soon.

Lydia closes her eyes and _Stiles is there_. She reaches for him, but he slips through her fingers, quickly vanishing from sight…concealed by a mass of fog and mist.


	5. Love Brings You Lilacs

**Eight Hours Later**

Later that same Monday morning, Lydia wakes for the second time without Stiles – without the protection of his arms around her and without the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat against her ear. Somehow it feels worse. She has no plans to attend school and no one expects her to. She lies in bed – missing Stiles, going over everything she can remember from the previous day. Part of her refuses to believe he would leave without a word of explanation _. He is not just anyone. He is Stiles. He wouldn't do this to me._ She wants to call him, to ask what changed, to convince him to come back to her. She waits until lunchtime in the hopes of speaking to him, instead of leaving a message. Once again, Malia answers the phone and Lydia hangs up.

She spends the afternoon crying into her pillow…until Scott rings to check on her. He stayed home too. As they speak, she can hear the concern in his tone, but she doesn't tell him what happened. She figures she doesn't have to. Scott will probably understand it when he sees her the next time – after all, broken hearts have a way of recognizing each other.

* * *

 **One Week Earlier:** March 19

Lydia is first aware of a familiar hand caressing her cheek. For a few seconds she is unsure of how that is possible, but then she hears a voice she would recognize anywhere.

"Lydia...Lydia...Lyds."

"Stiles?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

She slowly opens her eyes, blinking until her vision clears, gradually revealing him. His eyes are soft and sleepy, lids still inflamed around the rims, darkness circling beneath. His cheeks are pale and lips slightly chapped, but he is still Stiles – same chiseled jawline, distinct pattern of moles, upturned nose, and incredible silky brown hair with the best case of bed-head she has ever seen – and he is still perfect to her.

She remains silent. Her mind is working swiftly to gather every detail, so she can commit the experience of waking up in his arms, of being surrounded by him, to memory. She focuses on the sensation of his left hand on her face and the way his right arm encircles her. Her head is nestled against his shoulder and they are sitting exceptionally close, on the large comfy sofa that resides in the Stilinski living room. She takes comfort in the feeling of their fingers locked together under the warmth of a fluffy plaid blanket.

As memories of the last few days begin to enter her mind – memories of Allison dying, of Stiles nearly slipping away from her, of the Nogitsune abducting her – Lydia becomes conscious of the unpleasant heaviness in her chest and the opposing fluttering in her stomach. Her heart quickens, she is on the verge of tears, but she can't take her eyes off of Stiles. Somehow, even in the midst of her grief, he makes her feel secure and loved.

"Are you alright? Were you having another nightmare?" he asks.

"No. I'm okay. What time is it?"

"A little after 6. Do you know what day it is?"

She briefly closes her eyes and swallows. "Um…Tuesday...I think."

"Yeah…Tuesday, the 19th. Lydia, it's your birthday."

"Oh…I forgot," she responds quietly, before averting her eyes to the side.

"Yeah, I thought you might," he says, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone to bring her gaze back to him.

"You remembered," she affirms, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

He smiles tenderly, and she catches a flash of gold from his deep brown irises; it dispels the early morning haze from her mind.

"Lydia, I know today isn't going to be what it should be for you. I know you don't feel like celebrating, but I can't let today go by without at least acknowledging it. Would it be okay if we did something together…after school?"

"Stiles…I—"

"It will be simple…just us," he interrupts.

"You really don't have to."

"I know that, but I want to. Will you let me?"

She looks at him hesitantly, "I dunno…"

" _Please,_ Lydia… just let me do _one_ thing for you… _just one thing_."

His tongue juts out to wet his lips and she stares. It's so difficult to refuse Stiles. He is looking down at her with a pleading, yet hopeful expression that shines even through the purple-hued shadows under his eyes and slightly hollowed cheekbones which have been sculpted by weeks of unrest. His brows are arched, long dark lashes outlining his almond-shaped eyes, and he is sporting an open-mouthed pout that only he has the power to wield so convincingly. Lydia is powerless against the pull she feels towards Stiles. His body generates a magnetic force which causes any amount of space between them to feel like far too much. It tugs at her, encouraging her to shift closer, until their sides are pressed together.

" _Just us? You promise?"_ she stresses.

"I promise _._ "

"Okay."

"Really?"

"Yes," she nods with the faintest trace of a smile touching her lips.

An irresistible crooked grin stretches across Stiles's face. Suddenly the dimly lit room is a great deal brighter. That simple shift of his mouth offers Lydia the world – it brings with it the possibility of a few moments of escape from the misery under which she has been submersed; a few moments where they can be just Lydia and Stiles – not Lydia, the banshee who couldn't save her best friend with her so-called abilities; not Stiles, the boy who was possessed by an evil fox spirit because he selflessly risked his life for his father – just Lydia and Stiles – a girl and a boy who would do anything to see each other be happy.

"Okay, then. Good," he responds. "I…uh…have lacrosse practice today, but it should be over by 5:30. We could meet in the library."

"Yeah, that will work. I have to spend some time on my history report anyway."

Lydia gazes up at Stiles, observing that this is the most unburdened he has looked in weeks and she is grateful for it. It dulls the nagging ache in her chest to see that she can ease some of his suffering…because he certainly has the same effect on her. When Stiles holds her tighter, resting his cheek against her forehead, she nestles close to his chest…just breathing him in.

After a few minutes, he checks his watch. "I better get moving," Stiles sighs, reluctantly releasing Lydia from his embrace.

Immediately missing the contact between them, she watches as he rises from the couch and leans in, tucking the blanket around her. He gingerly pushes a few errant strands of hair behind her ear and drops a light kiss on the bridge of her nose. "Try to get a few more minutes of sleep. I'm going to get changed and then we can stop by your house. Okay?"

The glow from his eyes, matched with tender touches and the sound of his voice, makes Lydia feel dizzy. She can't seem to get herself to speak so she simply nods and closes her eyes.

When he leaves the room, she lies completely still, trying to compose herself while she contemplates how their relationship has developed over the past few months. Without question, she and Stiles have grown closer, spending most of the day at school as well as much of their free time together, but the heightened physical nature of their relationship is still fairly new. Stiles has always been cautious about crossing certain lines. Unhindered touches tend to be spontaneous, usually bracketed by ominous situations. Hurried and protective, they are marked by a sense of urgency – reactions rather than seduction, but effective, nonetheless. They catch her by surprise and make her heart skip and her legs falter. Soft and intimate caresses between them, are typically careful and hesitant…and lately, they have been occurring more frequently. The degree of care Stiles conveys in the lightest of touches never fails to impress her. In these moments, Lydia can almost hear him asking her for permission and when they connect – it is electric. She can feel her entire body buzzing, every cell awakening, her heart thrashing against her rib cage so forcefully, she thinks he must be able to hear it. The effect he has on her is overwhelming and a bit daunting, but it makes her feel alive and she craves it more and more each day.

She drifts into sleep thinking of his arms around her, and his hands on her face, and the warmth of his lips lingering against her skin like a promise.

* * *

After what feels like a few seconds, but must be closer to twenty minutes, Stiles is waking Lydia with the gentle pressure of his hands on her shoulders.

"Lydia…Lyds…"

"Mm…"

"I'm sorry…it's time to go."

"Okay. I'm ready," she replies, rubbing her tired eyes.

Lydia watches as Stiles lifts the blanket aside, folds it neatly, and places it over the back of the couch. He is dressed in jeans and a white tee shirt with a faded blue and grey hoodie layered over it. He smells like pine needles and clean cotton, and his hair is still damp from the shower. _He is so beautiful._ _He is so beautiful…and he doesn't even know it_.

When she realizes she is staring, Lydia peels her eyes away from him, reaches under the coffee table for her ankle boots and begins to slip them on. She fiddles with the zipper of her right boot, which always manages to stick, but is especially uncooperative now that her hands are trembling.

Stiles sees her struggling and kneels in front of her, covering her shaking hands with his own. "Here. Let me try," he says in a tone just above a whisper.

He slides his hand under her calf and lifts her leg until her heel is positioned on his knee. The heat from his hand makes her bite her lip to withhold a gasp. He hesitates a second or two before taking the tiny zipper between his thumb and index finger and sliding it down again. The sensation of his fingertips skimming against the bare skin of her ankle sends a rush of blood coursing through Lydia's veins. She moves her hand underneath the hem of her skirt to her thigh and pinches it in an effort to distract herself. Stiles holds the top of her boot closed with one hand and with the other, he slowly glides the zipper upwards until it is secure.

"Got it," he announces, before easing her heel down to the floor.

"Thanks," Lydia manages to squeak out.

Stiles straightens up and holds his hands out to her. She accepts them, standing on slightly wobbly legs. When the two are face to face, he laces their fingers together and brings their arms up to his chest, pulling her just a bit closer. Lydia matches his movement, stepping nearer until their knees are touching, and she thinks she hears his breath catch in his throat.

"Ready to go?" he asks, voice wavering over the words.

"Yeah."

He releases her left hand but maintains his grip on her right, leading her out of the living room. As they approach the front door, he picks up Lydia's jacket and helps her into it. He gathers his keys and both of their bags, slinging them over his shoulder before Lydia has a chance to reach for hers. She opens the door and steps out onto the porch, waiting as Stiles bolts the lock behind them.

Outside, the sound of his keys jingling is the only noise to be heard, and his light blue Jeep is the only splash of color to be seen against a blur of white fog, grey skies, and black wet earth. The damp atmosphere produces a biting chill that sinks directly into Lydia's bones. She wants to dive back into Stiles's arms and drench herself in his perpetual warmth, but instead she keeps pace with him as they walk to the truck. He pauses to open the passenger's side door for Lydia and she climbs inside.

The Jeep is already warmed up, its shelter providing an instant reprieve from the cold. _Stiles thinks of everything,_ she settles into her seat while Stiles puts their bags in the back and goes around to the driver's side. As soon as he sits next to her and starts the engine, she takes his hand in hers. No thought behind it other than the simple desire to connect with him. Holding his hand feels natural, and right, and real – and that is exactly what she needs.

He turns to her with a hint of surprise on his face, but swiftly reassures her by clutching her hand firmly before moving their linked palms over the gearshift. The normality of it makes her want to tell him she loves him – so much. She wants to tell him to just drive. She doesn't care where. Somewhere…anywhere…just keep driving until they get to a town they've never heard of, where they can safely disappear amongst a mass of people who haven't a care about their pasts or the supernatural. The concept of escaping from the place that has been assaulting them with turmoil for well over a year allows Lydia a brief moment of reprieve before the memories roll in, casting a worrisome shadow over her. She remembers how helpless and useless she felt when Stiles was missing – she should have been able to find him. She remembers how close he came to death – how just two days ago, he almost left her _forever_. She couldn't protect Allison, and she can't protect Stiles either. She thinks she will hurt him even though all she wants to do is love him.

She doesn't speak. The only sounds during the ten-minute drive are the rhythmic tapping of Stiles's left thumb on the steering wheel, the tires treading along the blacktop, and Lydia's heartbeat pounding in her ears.

* * *

Upon entering the Martin household, they are greeted by Prada, who practically leaps into Lydia's arms.

"Oh, my little girl! Did you miss me?" she asks, trying her best to sound like she isn't about to break apart.

Stiles reaches over Lydia's shoulder to scratch Prada's ears. The pup leans into his touch and gratefully licks his hand. "Wow…she's really excited. How long has she been alone?"

"Could only be an hour or so…since my mom left for the airport."

"Must feel like days to her."

"Yeah, it probably does. I hate leaving her alone at all," she continues, voice trailing off at the end of her admission. She kisses the top of Prada's head and hands her to Stiles. "I better go get changed. I'll try to be quick."

She gets halfway up the steps and turns back to him. "If you're hungry…there's plenty of food in the kitchen."

"Oh, thanks."

Lydia continues up the long staircase and down the hallway to her room, closing the door behind her. She stands at the closet and picks out a pair of black leggings and a lightweight grey floral sweater. Then she moves over to her dresser, selects a black satin bra and matching bikinis, lays everything out on her bed, and heads for the adjoining bathroom. She shrugs out of yesterday's clothes, takes a hot shower, washing her hair and conditioning it thoroughly. She wraps a fluffy towel around herself, parts her hair to one side, and blow-dries her abundance of strawberry-blonde locks with a large round brush until it is impeccably smooth and straight. After brushing her teeth, she re-enters her bedroom to dress.

A few minutes later, when she sits at her vanity to apply some tinted moisturizer, she is greeted by the pleasant scent of fresh cut flowers. She looks down to find a petite bouquet of pink roses and lavender hydrangea. The blooms are accented with dainty fuchsia waxflower and velvety dusty miller leaves, all arranged in a crystal cube vase. They are poised at the center of her vanity along with a black velvet box and a small card. Lydia reflexively scrunches up her face and decides to finish getting ready before looking at either. She curls her lashes and fills in her brows, then adds a touch of blush to her cheeks, so she doesn't look as tired as she feels. Lastly, she dabs a thin layer of pink gloss over her lips.

Deliberately tapping her fingers against her mirrored vanity, she glares at the gift box in front of her. Eventually, she lifts the lid to reveal a diamond pendant necklace. The stone is at least two and a half carats, round brilliant cut, set in platinum – exactly the kind of piece her mother would wear, and exactly the kind that Lydia wouldn't. If her mother paid attention, she would know that Lydia much prefers delicate pieces of jewelry, plain silver or gold – definitely not diamonds. Gnawing at her lip, she hesitates before picking up the card and removing it from its foiled gold envelope.

 _My Baby Girl,_

 _It breaks my heart not to be with you today. I love you so, so much. Will call you when I land in Toronto._

 _XOXO Always,_

 _Mom_

Lydia stares at the note for a few moments, studying her mother's absurdly perfect penmanship. On the surface, she guesses that her mom didn't have much of a choice about being away; her job requires a fair amount of traveling and this most recent business trip was scheduled months ago. Ever since Natalie was promoted, it seems that taking time off is especially problematic. Apparently, needing to be with your daughter, who just lost her best friend, is not enough of a reason to take a personal day or two…not even if today is her birthday.

If she digs a bit deeper though, her mother's absence looks less like a work obligation and more like a choice. It's no secret that Natalie is accustomed to a particular kind of lifestyle. Regardless of how much time she would be spending outside of Beacon Hills, away from Lydia, she ultimately accepted the position because the additional income that came with it was too intriguing to pass up. _How else can one afford to purchase a new car every few years, update their wardrobe each season, and keep the wine cellar fully stocked at the lake house?_

Lydia used to be impressed by all of the things her mother could buy for her, but lately, she could not care less, and she has to wonder if she ever really did. She was raised to believe that material things were important, she was supposed to want things…the same way she was _supposed_ to be popular and _supposed_ to be with someone like Jackson. In truth, none of those things made Lydia happy, they only made her feel like she had to be someone…else. Someone who's appearance of happiness could be admired from a distance, rather than someone who forged genuine connections.

In the past year, things have changed. Lydia has changed. She has come to view the expansive, immaculately maintained, professionally decorated, multi-level building in which she lives as an empty shell, not a home. It is a place that is filled with things – things that came with an expensive price tag, but nothing of real value, nothing she would miss if she never saw them again. Thanks to her father's departure and her mother's shiny new promotion, Lydia spends much of her time in the house alone…save for Prada's loyal companionship, of course. It is a place without anything or anyone to muffle the lonely echoes that resound in the quiet morning hours and darkness of night.

Though her own place is not a comforting one, Lydia knows what _home_ is supposed to feel like because of two exceptional people. Home is Allison curled up next to her with a book, a few secrets, and a pile of chocolate chip cookies. Home is Stiles climbing through her window with an irresistibly hopeful smile, a mystery that needs solving, and a pocket-full of notebook paper…engraved in unspoken love.

If home is a place, then its address is 129 Woodbine Lane, the small and cozy, single-level building with family photos on the walls, scuff-marks on the wood floors, a backdoor that creaks when it opens, a dining room that doubles as a home office, and a pile of laundry waiting to be done. It is the place where Stiles lives with his dad – his dad who works long hours and late nights, but still always manages to be there for his son. The place where she slept last night and woke up just a few hours ago, enveloped in warm arms, mesmerized by a sleepy morning voice and golden-brown eyes, and soothed by the beating of a steady heart under her palm – _that_ is home.

Lydia rereads the card her mother left, fixating on the line: It breaks my heart not to be with you today.

 _Today?_ _What about all of the other days?_

Her mother seems content to follow in her father's footsteps…both of which are always half-way out the door. She crinkles the message in her fist and lets it fall out of her hand and onto the carpet. Then she slams the lid of the velvet box and pushes it aside. She feels abandoned. She thinks about spending the coming night in this colossal brick structure… _alone_ …and she is scared.

Actively working to ignore the tightness in her chest, she examines the flower petals with her fingertips, concentrating on their silk-like texture. It's no use. With each passing second, her lungs constrict more forcefully.

When Lydia lifts her eyes to glance at her reflection, a photo of Allison, Scott, Stiles, and herself that is tucked into the corner of the mirror, catches her eye. She is directly struck by a swell of grief. It is as though a fist has collided with her already bruised sternum, knocking the wind from her lungs. Stunned, she grasps for the solid edges of the furniture. Her head starts to spin, and she begins to shake as she unsuccessfully works to catch her breath. She pants, squeezing her eyes tightly while tears slip past her lashes.

Counting to three, she lets herself silently cry…one…two…three. Then she opens her eyes and works to regain control by focusing on the image of Stiles. She examines every detail of him – expressive eyebrows and a sweet open-mouthed smile lifting the corners of his mouth. She looks at the affectionate way he is glancing down at her upturned face, both arms slung over her shoulders as he stands behind her. She remembers how it felt to be in that moment – relaxed, and happy, and so loved – loved by Allison who is holding her hand like it is a lifeline, loved by Scott who exudes optimism, kindness, and care, and loved by Stiles who looks at her like she is the only girl he ever wants to see. The pain subsides, and she can breathe again.

She quickly retouches her make-up, picks up the delicate beaded silver bracelet Allison gave her for Christmas, and secures it around her right wrist. Sliding into her black knee-high boots, she grabs her keys and heads downstairs to be with Stiles.

* * *

He is seated on the bottom step with Prada at his feet. They are playing fetch with the Papillon's favorite toy; a plush yellow duck that quacks when she chews on it. When Lydia steps next to Stiles, he stands and reaches for her hand. His touch makes her warmer and less troubled.

"Hey, you alright?"

"Not really," she replies, trying to communicate in her tone that she doesn't want to talk about it now.

She knows Stiles recognizes it, because he nods and doesn't press any further. "I took Prada for a walk," he informs her.

Lydia raises her eyebrows skeptically.

"Well…actually she walked with me for a block or so…then I carried her the rest of the way."

"That's what I thought. She is so spoiled."

"And you wouldn't have it any other way."

"No. I wouldn't," she replies, bending down to pet her beloved dog. Prada seizes the opportunity to roll over for a tummy rub, and Lydia obliges with a smile. When she looks up at Stiles she can tell he is pondering something…or perhaps plotting… "What?" she asks suspiciously.

"What?" he repeats.

"That look... You're up to something."

"Maybe...never mind…you'll find out soon enough."

"Stiles…"

"Come on…come have some breakfast," he redirects, towing her towards the kitchen.

"Wha— I didn't mean you had to…"

"I know, but you haven't had anything since yesterday…and you need to eat."

"But we're already late as it—"

She freezes in the doorway. There is a fresh pot of coffee brewing. He has laid out two bowls of cereal along with a few slices of toast and the apricot jam she likes. The sight of it pulls at her heart strings. Stiles is clearly exhausted from the ordeal he has been through, but here he is – _taking care of her_. She feels so unworthy of the attention, it makes her throat hurt.

"So, we'll be late," he deflects. "In all likelihood, the school will still be there when we're done."

Putting his hands on her shoulders, Stiles guides Lydia to a chair by the white and grey marble island and waits until she sits. He retrieves the coffee pot and pours her a cup as well as one for himself. After Lydia adds a teaspoon of sugar and a splash of milk to hers, Stiles takes the seat on her right side. He fixes his coffee with a generous amount of sugar and milk, then takes her hand in his, weaving their fingers together. As their tired limbs casually dangle in the space between their two chairs, Lydia realizes she has never been more grateful to be left-handed. Stiles is right-handed, so they can hold onto each other while keeping their dominant hands free. It's just so easy and right, the way they fit together. Stiles and Lydia, _a perfect combination_.

She takes a bite of toast and sips her coffee, watching Stiles from the corner of her eye. "So, are you going to tell me what we're doing after school?"

"Nope," he quickly replies.

They exchange a glance. She rolls her eyes at him and he arches his eyebrows teasingly at her. They both look away, then peek back at each other with curled lips. It's exactly the feeling she has been longing for – normal – just Stiles and Lydia…everything else fading into the background. They finish their breakfast in comfortable silence.

Lydia is adrift with her thoughts when Stiles begins running his thumb over hers, sending electricity wandering up her arm. "Why don't you go grab a jacket?" he suggests with a yawn. "You might want it later on. I'll clean up."

She scrutinizes his expression. He is trying to mask it, but he looks drained and she worries that he is wearing himself out. _It has only been two days._ "Stiles…you don't have to do everything. I'm not the only one who has been through…at least let me help you," she argues, letting go of his hand to pick up her plate.

He quickly covers her wrist with his long fingers. His eyes are soft and gentle, but he is uncharacteristically serious. "Lydia, I've got this. You've been looking out for me non-stop since I left the hospital. For _one day_ , please just let me…"

She lets go of the plate and pulls her arm out of his grasp to wrap it around her midsection. He isn't being harsh, but she can't help taking his refusal as an insult. "Okay…I'm sorry. I don't mean to hover. I just…want to make sure you don't push yourself too much. It's only been two days…and…"

"Hey, it's alright."

"No, it isn't. You stopped breathing…and you almost…" She looks straight ahead instead of facing him. As much as she wants to sound strong and capable, her voice is betraying her as it breaks with emotion.

Stiles quickly stands up and steps away from the island, pulling her with him. "Lydia, I'm alright…and you're not hovering…you've been amazing," he assures her, before letting his voice trail off. "It's more than I…"

She thinks he was going to say "more than I deserve" and it upsets her – the sense of responsibility he has; the weight of the world always on his shoulders – worry about his dad, be there for Scott, keep up with school, take care of her. His instinct to protect is relentless and when he thinks he has failed, his propensity to blame himself is equally unyielding. She is about to tell him that he is the most selfless, and kind, and remarkable person she knows; that he deserves the best of everything; that more than anything, she wants to see him happy and she wants him to believe in and trust himself the way she does…but she doesn't get the chance because her breath is caught in her throat from the feeling of his hands on her. Her lip is beginning to tremble, and Stiles wastes no time in trying to comfort her.

"Aww…Lyds, come here," he coaxes, dipping down to hug her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Something makes her resist. The part of Lydia that questions whether anyone can really care for her begins to raise its voice. It tells her that all of the attention Stiles is showing her is purely a manifestation of his guilt – not love. She tenses, but then one of his hands comes up to cradle her head and the other is fixed at the small of her back, dipping into the curve of her spine. The way Stiles can read her body, always predicting exactly how she wants to be held, provides a sense of relief that burrows deep into her heart and stills her soul. He is completely motionless and solid against her; she feels anchored to him. In his embrace, the part of Lydia that believes that Stiles can _and does_ love her speaks louder. She lets go of the doubt, leaning into him and dropping her head to his chest so she can try to discreetly listen to his heartbeat.

"It's not you…I'm just…" she struggles to explain.

Suddenly, his hand moves to cup her face and angle it towards him. He presses his lips to her skin, peppering her forehead with soft sweet kisses, whispering "I know…I know…I know."

Stiles has never held her this way before – so confidently, so unhindered, so free from hesitation – like she belongs with him. Unlike the demanding way other boys have pushed their arms around her, with Stiles there is no trace of greed or ownership, only affection and adoration. _It feels so right._ Lydia had no idea how much she longed for it…until this very moment…and she wants more. She tugs at the fabric of his sweatshirt with shaking hands, hoping to convey how much she needs him. He seems to understand because he exhales and tightens his grip.

When he eventually leans back to look at her, Lydia's chest floods with emotion. She is unsure of what to do with all of the feelings swirling inside of her. _He is so close._ She has to look away before she comes undone. Her eyes find the floor, but Stiles works to bring her back to him.

"Lydia, look at me… _please look at me_."

She slowly raises her eyes to meet his, sucking in her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

"You don't have to hide…not from me. Alright? You can tell me anything…you can cry in front of me…you can scream if you want to. I can handle it. I know I look like hell, but I'm not going to break," he jokes weakly.

"Stiles…you don't."

"Don't what?"

"You don't look like hell…just tired."

"Tired and…" he nudges, swaying them both gently from side to side, obviously seeking to lighten the mood.

"Stiles…"

"Tired…but still kind of cute?"

She purses her lips to withhold a grin.

"Tired…but in a sort of sexy way?"

 _Did he just wink at me?_ She tries to forget the image but it's a vain attempt. He has broken through her already weakened defenses, and her mouth curls into a smile.

"That's better," he responds.

"You're impossible. You know that, don't you?"

"But that's part of my charm though…right?"

"If you say so," she replies, still smiling. Without warning, a sharp pang of remorse jabs at her stomach. She shouldn't be smiling — Allison is dead. Stiles moves in to sneak another hug but Lydia steps back. "I'm going to get my jacket before it gets any later."

He pouts at her, and it's completely adorable, but she keeps going because she needs some time alone. She hurries upstairs to her room, sits on the floor by her bed and takes slow deep breaths until she feels in control again. Then, she touches up her lip gloss, grabs her denim jacket from the closet, and heads downstairs – where she knows Stiles will be waiting for her.

* * *

When the pair arrive at the high school, the parking lot is packed with cars instead of people. Stiles pulls into one of the few available spaces and turns off the engine. It's nearly 9:30, so the first class of the morning is already well underway. Rather than walking into the middle of class, the two decide to wait in the Jeep and go straight to second period.

The strain is palpable. Lydia is staring out the window at the thick mass of fog which seems to have taken on a life of its own. It's waiting for her to let her guard down; threatening to swallow her whole when she does. Inside the Jeep, _with Stiles_ , she is safe, but she fears stepping out into the mist, and returning to a place that holds so many memories. She can feel Stiles looking at her and she can hear his foot tapping as he anxiously shakes his leg up and down. She reaches across, placing her hand firmly on his knee. He startles and stills inside of one second.

"Sorry," he says in a low voice.

"I don't mind, I just…don't want you to get worked up before we even go in."

She turns her palm upwards and he slides his hand over hers, sighing heavily. "Thanks, I needed that."

Skin on skin, they become just Stiles and Lydia again. They spend the next few minutes in silence as he traces circles on the inside of her palm with his thumb and she listens to the even sound of his breathing.

After a while, he speaks. "Are you sure you want to do this? I mean…maybe you should take another day."

"Chris won't be back until tomorrow night and then we have to start planning the… I can't just sit around and wait. I need to do something."

Stiles tugs on her hand, and she knows he wants her to look at him, so she does.

"I get it. I do…but if at any point it's too much and you want to leave…just come get me. Okay?…and we'll go…we'll just _go_."

"I will. I promise."

He releases her hand and they both step out into the cold. Slowly, they approach the building, their hands finding each other once more. As soon as they step through the doors, a sea of eyes simultaneously turns to gawk at them. Lydia stops in her tracks and looks to Stiles who is frowning with dismay. She can feel the anxiety radiating off of him, and it makes her angry to witness his discomfort. The desire to shield him propels her forward. She tilts her head upwards and whips around to face their classmates, pulling Stiles down the swarming corridor, expressly ignoring the stares and whispers. When she glances back at Stiles, he is beaming at her – his expression now filled with tenderness and awe. She thinks she sees love in his eyes and it melts the chill from her bones.

The two continue down the hall, up a long flight of stairs, make a left, and stop outside the chemistry lab. It's much quieter here because there are only a few classrooms open on a daily basis. Lydia has chemistry with Scott, and Stiles has English literature with Kira, in the next room. Though they won't be far from each other, Lydia is already dreading the time apart from Stiles. He braces against the wall and slides his arm over her shoulder. She leans into him, sharply aware that his breaths are quick and shallow. Swiftly moving in front of him, she puts her hand on his chest. His heart is pounding too.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"I think so. It's just…weird being back here."

"Yeah, it is. Just try to take slow breaths," Lydia tells him. She gently rubs her hand over his sternum and his eyes widen a bit, but he inhales and exhales slowly with her. "Better?"

He nods, blinking down at her. The gold flecks in his eyes are flashing at her; signs along a highway, guiding her closer, making her want to stretch up on the tips of her toes and kiss him. _He's so close, and he is so good to me, and he's so beautiful_ …

The sound of footsteps followed by a soft voice travels from a few feet away. "Hey guys."

"Hey, Scott," Stiles answers.

Lydia takes her hand off of Stiles, immediately ashamed for thinking about kissing him when Scott is heartbroken over Allison. "Scott…"

She is not sure what kind of expression she should expect from him when she turns, but there is no suggestion of bitterness, only sadness and compassion. He holds his arms out to her and she steps up to her friend, wrapping her arms around him.

"Listen, I…I know it's your birthday…" he starts, "…and I want to say something…but it feels wrong to say happy anything…"

"It's okay. I'm just glad you're here," she assures him.

He hugs her briefly, but tightly, then kisses her cheek and reaches for Stiles shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah…I'm just…my usual anxious self…but taken up a few notches. I'll be fine," he answers with a shrug.

Scott forms a weak smile and readjusts the strap of his backpack. "Kira should be here any minute."

"Speaking of…" Stiles points out with a wave. When he drops his arm, Lydia nudges his wrist and he immediately links their pinkies.

"Hi," Kira says as she steps next to Scott. She looks at him, smiling timidly, but seems careful not to touch him.

The four stand quietly for a few minutes, until each of their teachers enters their respective classrooms.

"Well, I guess we better go in," Lydia says to Scott.

"Yeah us too," Kira says looking at Stiles before abruptly moving towards Lydia and putting her arms around her.

Lydia is surprised by the gesture, but she lets go of Stiles to return the embrace with both arms.

After a few seconds Kira steps back. "I just wanted to say…if you need anything, I'm here. I know we don't know each other all that well…and I know you have Stiles and Scott, but if you know…there's anything I can do…to help…I'm here too. Okay? Unless you think that would be uncomfortable for you…because I don't want that…I—"

"Kira…"

"…just want to…"

"Kira…"

"…help if I can… Yeah?"

"Thank you. That means a lot to me."

Kira smiles. "Great. I mean you're welcome. I mean…I'll see you later," she fumbles. Then she departs, looking over her shoulder at Scott before entering the classroom.

The three remaining share a knowing glance and a collective grin. Kira's awkwardness is undeniably sweet. Lydia considers how difficult things must be for her. She and Scott were obviously getting closer…and then Allison. She must be so confused about how and where she fits into Scott's life.

When the bell that signals the beginning of class buzzes overhead, Lydia snaps out her wandering thoughts.

Scott says a quick "see you later" to Stiles and steps into the chemistry lab.

Stiles turns to Lydia, squeezing her hand and reaching out to touch her chin. "Don't forget...I'm right next door."

"I won't. You too…I mean…if you need me…or Scott."

He wets his lips and nods. "I'll meet you here before algebra." Then he gives her a quick hug and disappears behind the door of his classroom.

* * *

Chemistry class drags sluggishly. Lydia can literally feel other students' eyes on her, boring into her. It makes her uncomfortable. There is a prickling sensation underneath her skin that is unbearable, and she is about to walk out of class when Scott sympathetically rests his hand on her arm. She can tell that he understands, and she wants to be there for him, so she stays. Watching the clock, Lydia writhes in her seat; chest tightening with grief for Allison and longing for Stiles. As soon as class is over, she and Scott spring from their chairs. Scott has a free period next, so he tells her he is going to the library and they make plans to meet for lunch with Kira.

On the way out of the room, Lydia is in such a rush to get to Stiles that she nearly passes him by, but he catches her elbow…and she can breathe again. In algebra, they sit at the farthest corner of the room. Stiles takes the seat to her right, so they can hold hands. Every so often, his thumb slips underneath the smooth silver beads of her bracelet to caress her wrist, and it eases the throbbing ache in her heart. Lydia is certain that getting through the day would be much less painful if she had every class with him. Whenever she shifts her eyes towards Stiles, his are already fixed on her. The way he looks at her incites fluttering in her stomach that thaws her from the inside out.

On the way to lunch, at least ten different people stop Lydia in the hallway to tell her how sorry they are about Allison. She doesn't know any of them and guesses Allison didn't either, but she bites her tongue…and nods…and smiles…and presses closer into Stiles each time another person approaches them. She guesses their intentions are good, but it's painfully awkward to hear another strange face tell her how amazing Allison _was_. She just wants to get through the day without crying in public, but every word they utter pushes her one step closer to tears.

After the fifth person, Lydia is ready to bolt for the bathroom. Stiles, of course, appears to be reading her mind and he knows just what to do to stop her from taking off. He keeps a strong arm around her waist, and at the exact moment she feels herself losing her composure, he subtly interjects and quickly ends the conversation. She is so affected by his ability to respond to her that she can't find a way to thank him other than to drop her head to his chest and pull him into a hug.

* * *

In the cafeteria, they meet with Scott and Kira as planned. Lydia has just finished listening to a nauseating, sugary-sweet voicemail from her mother; pure overcompensation that destroys what little appetite she had. She slips her phone in her bag, stacks her books on the table, and sits on the bench across from Kira. The two girls exchange a grimace when they both realize that nearly every person that passes their table is either staring at Scott or Lydia. Her anger starts to flare as she considers the lack of subtlety they display. The way everyone so blatantly gawks at them makes her feel like _a thing_ , not a person. By the time Stiles walks up to the table, she is thoroughly annoyed, tight fist clamped against her mouth to withhold the scream that is compiling at the back of her throat.

Stiles sets two trays down and slides one in front of Lydia, then sits directly next to her, straddling the bench.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," she tells him, keeping her eyes on her history book.

"Well, _I am_ …but if you're not eating, then neither am I."

"Stiles _eat_ ," she says, spark of irritation coloring her tone.

"Ladies first," Stiles counters, moving closer to her.

Fearful that she will unfairly direct her frustration at him, Lydia remains silent.

"Lydia, come on… _please_."

Stiles is leaning over her shoulder. His breath breezes across her ear when he speaks, and she shudders. She wonders if he has any idea what he is doing to her. She ticks her head to one side and confronts him with narrowed eyes – ready to spar, but he is giving her nothing but concern and sweetness and he makes her forget what she was going to say. She reluctantly picks up the sandwich from her tray, takes a bite, and waits for Stiles to do the same.

Over the next few minutes, the two continue to challenge each other to eat. Once Lydia starts to relax, his hand connects lightly with her shoulder blade. She automatically leans into his palm and Stiles curls his fingers under, kneading her tense muscles with his knuckles. Just like that – he puts out one fire and kindles another. The anger that was threatening to consume her has been extinguished, but a slowly intensifying heat begins to rise in her belly and spread outwards in every direction. It soothes the aches in her muscles and coaxes her closer. When Stiles stops, she has to bite her tongue to keep from moaning in protest, but then he drops his hand to her hip and she freezes. Every so often, he edges nearer…until eventually, Lydia is propped against his chest, his jaw resting against her cheekbone and left arm wrapped completely around her. _It feels so good._ The closer they are, the more she wants to keep it that way.

Lydia quietly listens to the conversations going on around her without paying much attention, but she thinks she detects Stiles tense against her when Kira mentions that Malia Tate will be starting school with them next week. It gives Lydia pause, but as Stiles starts playing with the narrow gold ring she wears on her index finger, she dismisses the uneasiness and concentrates on the gentle rise and fall of his broad chest against her back.

* * *

Not having any other classes with Stiles makes the afternoon painstakingly long. Lydia, who normally has no trouble focusing, finds that she cannot concentrate on her work for more than a few moments at a time. Her mind keeps drifting between Allison and Stiles. In art class, she is haunted by the unoccupied chair beside her – where Allison should be sitting. In history, she looks at the series of scribbles Stiles penned in the margin of her notebook and counts the minutes until the final bell because she is aching to get back to him.

When class mercifully ends, Lydia gets halfway to her locker and finds she is unable to move any closer. She is surrounded by a swarm of voices, talking and laughing as though nothing has changed; as though nothing is wrong. Students happily gather their belongings and make plans for the rest of their day, while the shrieking sound of locker doors swinging open and slamming shut resounds in her head. Nearly every locker, save for one – which Lydia is supposed to empty tomorrow, so she can bring Allison's belongings home to Chris. The concept makes Lydia queasy, but she promised she would do it and she can't let her best friend's father down. There are so many people around and so much activity that it makes her head hurt and her chest seize. She is compelled to run for the doors that lead to the parking lot because she is suffocating under the unrelenting pressure, but then she feels a hand at the small of her back. _Stiles._

"Hi," he greets her, pressing a kiss to the side of her head.

She turns and looks up, relief washing over her as she is finally able to take a breath. "Hi."

Her eyes start to water while her heart rushes with love for him. _He's always here for me when I need him._ She knows he can see her tears and is grateful that he doesn't draw attention to them. He simply takes her books and puts a reassuring arm around her shoulders.

"I have a few minutes before practice. How about I walk you to the library?"

"I have to stop by my locker first."

"Sure." He falls in step with her as they pass down the hall, through the gradually thinning crowd.

Lydia's body wants to resist each step, but she pushes forward. When she reaches for her lock and begins fumbling with the dial, Stiles covers her hands with his and enters the combination himself. He holds her bag open for her while she swaps her books. His eyes are searching and vigilant; almost like he is warning people to keep away from her.

"All set?" he asks.

"Yeah."

They walk to the library where a few students that Lydia hardly recognizes are taking measurements and setting up a table near the door. Lydia overhears their less than delicate whispers about the memorial for Allison that they are working on. She raises her brow and makes eye contact with Stiles as he anxiously taps his finger on the strap of his bookbag. The first words to leave his mouth are an apology.

"This was obviously not one of my better ideas. I'm so sorry Lydia."

"It's not your fault. How could you have known? It's not like anyone asked _her friends_ to be involved," she says through gritted teeth, waving her hand with disgust.

"Do you want me to take you somewhere else?"

She shrugs, all of the tension warping into defeat. "I'm not going to be able to avoid seeing it for long. May as well get it over with…besides…it doesn't look like they'll be making much progress." She nods her head towards the small group. They are already bickering over details.

"You're amazing. You know that?"

"I'm not," she replies, shaking her head. She thinks if she were, then she could have saved Allison. If she were, she could have found Stiles when he was missing.

"Yeah… _you are_ ," he maintains. He gently pushes her hair behind her shoulder and massages the base of her neck with the pads of his fingertips. It feels so good to have his skin against hers that she can't withhold the whimper that escapes her mouth or the tremble that succeeds it as she fights the desire to cover him with kisses.

"Lydia, you're shaking. Are you cold?"

"A little," she fibs. She is not supposed to be feeling like this. Not when her best friend is dead. It's completely selfish to be consumed with want, when Allison is gone… _forever._ Her mind wanders. Stiles is asking her a question, but she can't discern the words. He nudges her chin upwards and their eyes connect, waking Lydia from her internal conflict.

"Lydia?"

"Sorry… What did you say?"

"I have an extra sweatshirt in my locker. You can have this one…if you want."

"Oh, no. I'll be okay, it's always hot in the library anyway."

"Alright. If you're sure…"

"Yeah," she forces a small smile.

"I should probably get going," he says, but he hesitates, looking at her thoughtfully. His hand still grazing the nape of her neck.

Irrefutably pulled towards him, she steps forward and places her hand over his heart. "Stiles?"

"Yeah, Lyds?"

 _Allison is stumbling backward as a sword is callously withdrawn from her abdomen. Her hands clutch the wound. Stiles is falling to the floor in the hallway…mere steps from where they are standing right now._

The three words she has been struggling to say for weeks, fight their way into her mouth and dissolve on her tongue. She changes course, "I…I heard Finstock's in a mood…good luck."

He frowns but quickly reshapes it into a shy smile. Then, he touches his forehead to hers. Their noses graze as he pulls away whispering, "Thanks for the warning. I'll see you later," before jogging down the hall, leaving her breathless and already missing his presence.

* * *

Lydia spends the next hour and thirty minutes trying to work on her history paper. She finds a secluded spot on the upper level of the library and sets up her laptop. Propping her face in her hands, she rubs at her temples. She has a raging headache, so she pops two ibuprofen tablets and takes a gulp of water to wash them down. The pain in her head and the aching in her chest make it difficult to focus. Every time she hears a sound, she loses her train of thought. She manages to type a few pages and it's far from her best writing, but it is good enough, so she saves her work to proofread later on.

She has another twenty minutes until she is supposed to meet Stiles. Resting her head on her arms, she resists the inclination to appease her tired eyes. She can't sleep. It's worse when she sleeps – and Stiles is not with her. By the time her phone buzzes with a text message, her headache has passed.

Stiles: _Sorry…running late. Meet me by the Jeep in 5?_

Quickly typing a reply, Lydia pulls her jacket on, gathers her belongings, and heads for the parking lot. As she exits the library, she notes the lack of progress on Allison's memorial, it sickens her to hear strangers debating over which photo best captures Allison's spirit. She averts her eyes and glides past the group unnoticed.

On her way out of the school, it is impossible not to look at Allison's locker. There is no one around, so Lydia stops directly in front of it and raises her hand to the door. The cold metal against her skin triggers a vivid flashback of the moment she felt Allison's death. Clutching at her stomach, she abruptly retreats, and rushes out of the building.

* * *

When she gets to the parking lot, Stiles is standing by the Jeep with his back to her, which gives her an extra minute to collect herself. She doesn't want to ruin whatever he has planned, so she takes a breath and does her best to seem unaffected when she speaks.

"So…what happened…Coach make you guys run laps?"

Stiles turns his head at the sound of her voice, sweet smile on his face. He is clearly trying to conceal something in his arms.

"What are you—" Lydia begins.

"Actually, I didn't go to practice. I had a few errands to run," he replies, turning the rest of the way around to reveal that Prada is in his arms.

"Stiles, you didn't!" she gasps, wide-eyed with disbelief.

"You're not mad…are you?" he asks.

"No, no…of course not." She shakes her head and lifts her hand to touch his shoulder. "Is she my surprise?"

"Well…she's part of it. She wasn't in the original plan, _but_ I saw how sad you were to leave her this morning, and I thought…maybe we could take her with us. Is it okay?"

"Yeah, it's more than okay," she tells him, stepping closer. "She should probably have her dinner and another walk first though."

"Taken care of. I fed her at your house and took her for a walk, so she should be fine until later." He nods his head towards the Jeep. "Come on."

As he opens the passenger's side door, tears form behind Lydia's eyes. She sets her bag down near her feet and takes a deep breath.

Stiles waits for her to buckle herself in before placing Prada in her lap. He hesitates, looking at her pensively. "Hey."

"Hey."

"Long day…huh?"

"Yeah," she agrees.

He shifts his eyes downward, nervously fiddling with his key ring. "Uh…you sure this is okay? I didn't mean to push you this morning. If you want to go home, I'll understand."

"Actually, I think this will be good for both…well, _all three_ of us."

"Yeah?"

She nods.

"Okay, good." He gives her a long look before stepping back and closing the door.

She watches as Stiles crosses to the driver's side and climbs in next to her. "So…where are we going?"

"You'll see," he answers coyly.

"Stiles… _you promised_ – simple."

He reaches across and cups her face with his left hand, catching a stray tear in his palm. "It is…I swear." Then he starts the Jeep and pulls out of the parking space.

* * *

As they drive along the familiar road that cuts through town, Lydia can't help the excitement that builds each time Stiles glances over at her. With him next to her and Prada nestled in her lap, she is less burdened.

The sun is already setting behind a cover of white clouds that are gradually darkening to grey when they arrive at Lookout Point, fifteen minutes later. Stiles parks and walks around to help Lydia out of her seat. It's noticeably colder than it was earlier in the day, and the ground is damp and slackened beneath their feet. Heavy mist clings to their ankles, but Lydia ignores the way it whispers to her and focuses on Stiles, who is leading her to the back of the Jeep.

"I just need a few minutes. Close your eyes and wait right here," he says softly.

Lydia quirks her head to the side and raises an eyebrow but follows his instructions as nervous energy flares in her stomach. She holds onto Prada, pursing her lips in suspense. The trunk creaks open, she hears a series of rustling noises…followed by a few muffled curses, then she senses Stiles coming to stand behind her. He puts his hands on her shoulders and leans into her until his cheek brushes against hers.

"Okay…you can open your eyes now."

What she sees takes her breath away. The Jeep has been transformed. The back seat has been stowed, the floor of the trunk is covered with blankets, there are rows of fluffy pillows and a border of fresh cut lilac flowers scattered all around. _Lilacs._ _He got me lilacs…in March…when they aren't even in season._ She quickly realizes that Stiles had to have planned this, or some version of it, months ago.

Lydia stares open-mouthed until Stiles speaks up, starting to step aside. "Crap…Did I screw up?"

"What? No…I…" She impulsively turns her head, raises her free hand over her shoulder, and catches the side of his face before he slips out of her grasp. Almost instinctively, her fingers explore the curve of his ear before gingerly sliding back to weave into the thick silky strands of his hair. She and Stiles are so close that their lips make barely perceptible contact when she says, "I… It's… Stiles…it's perfect." _A fraction of an inch closer and we would be kissing_ , she thinks _._ Lydia is incredibly tempted but equally fearful of the consequences, so she doesn't move. _A fraction of an inch –_ _that's all it would take_ _to lose him._

He sighs with relief, breath and lips tickling Lydia's mouth as he speaks, "Oh…okay…good."

They pause for an extended moment, unsure of what to do next. Suddenly, a single flash of lightening illuminates the sky and they both startle, shifting their gaze to the heavens.

"Whoa…that is close," Stiles remarks. "We better get in, before it downpours."

Lydia follows him and sets Prada down in the Jeep. The pup quickly finds a corner near the pillows and curls up into a ball. Lydia climbs in next, positioning herself farthest from the door with her legs crossed underneath her. Stiles hops in last, closing the trunk behind him. He situates himself next to Lydia and switches on the overhead light. As if on cue, the sound of rain hitting the roof comes soon after.

It's warm and cozy inside the Jeep; their own little safe haven. Lydia wants to remember every detail. Just as she did in the morning, when she woke up in Stiles's arms, she studies her surroundings – the softness of the blankets and pillows, the rhythm of a dynamic rain shower tapping on the roof, the fragrance of the lilacs…sweet but not overpowering, Prada contentedly wandering into sleep like she hasn't a care in the world, and Stiles sitting beside her…looking at her in that way he does. _He is with me_ … _and he did all of this for me_. It is perfect – and Stiles made it so, because he knows her better than anyone has ever cared to know her. Despite the loss that is weighing on her, Lydia feels fortunate because the boy she loves actually loves her back. Stiles has never said it, but she can feel it – he shows her all of the time. She thinks maybe if she tries to do the same, Stiles will understand that she loves him too.

She picks up a flower and twirls it in her fingertips. "Lilacs are my favorite…but you knew that already…didn't you?"

"You may have mentioned it."

"And you somehow managed to get them today…when they aren't even in season…"

"I…uh…may have planned something a while ago."

"A few weeks ago…" she prompts.

"Maybe…if by a few weeks, you mean a few months…like six of them…" he admits, tiniest hint of redness rising in his cheeks.

"You were thinking about my birthday six months ago?"

He chews on his lip bashfully, eyes flashing each time he blinks, directing her closer. It's not often that Stiles is left speechless. Lydia places her hand on top of his and links their digits hoping to relax him. It seems to work. Stiles responds with a boyish grin before lifting their joined hands and placing them in his lap.

They sit quietly, listening to the rain, watching as lightning flares above and pretty amber lights flicker on throughout Beacon Hills below – a private light show…just for them. With Stiles so close, Lydia's awareness of their connection is palpable. She tries to pinpoint when she knew she loved him, but it is like trying to count the raindrops as they fall from the clouds. She was sure of it when she kissed him, yet she thought it even before then. Falling in love with Stiles was a contradiction in terms – it happened gradually and all at once; it was quiet, but it carried over the sounds that fill her head with uncertainty; it was unexpected, yet unequivocally meant to be. She never knew falling in love could be like that.

"I almost forgot…" Stiles says, lifting aside one of the pillows. He retrieves the parcel that is hidden behind and hands it to her.

Lydia recognizes the crisp white box with its magenta colored logo – it's from Sweet Surrender, her favorite bakery. "Is that what I think it is?"

He arches his eyebrow and glances down at the box waiting for her to open it. She does…and sure enough…it contains a perfectly decorated, raspberry-chocolate cupcake (her favorite) with a single pink candle at the center.

Stiles pulls a lighter from his pocket and lights the candle, then he lifts her hand and grazes his lips against the skin above her knuckles. "Make a wish," he says with a gentleness in his tone that she is sure is reserved for her alone.

The candlelight draws out the hollows in his cheeks and the angles of his face. It makes the gold flecks in his eyes flash brighter, drawing her nearer.

Lydia closes her eyes. She wishes that she could tell Stiles how much she loves him – without losing him, then she blows out the candle and watches the trail of smoke as it swirls around their heads.

She remembers a slight strawberry-blonde wearing a floral pinafore, uncovered freckles, and an uninhibited smile. A girl who chased butterflies and played in the dirt because she wanted to learn everything she could about the world around her by experiencing it with her own two hands. A girl who believed that birthday wishes could actually come true. Now she knows they don't. Tears rapidly fill her eyes, and she is helpless to stop them, so she drops her head onto the shoulder of the boy who makes her miss that little girl; the boy who has never let her down and who makes her want to learn to believe again.

"Stiles…thank you. This is…the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. I will _never_ forget it."

She lifts her head setting free a waterfall of tears that cascades between their bodies, leaving splotches on his sweatshirt, her lap, and both of their hands. Stiles is clinging to her palm, looking at her so intently and with such devotion that it sends her heart racing. She leans in, grazing her nose along his jawline before gingerly pressing her lips to his cheek. She can hear him swallow with difficulty, but she moves closer, placing one hand on the nape of his neck and drawing him in until their foreheads are touching. They both still – lips parted, breathing in the same air. Lydia catches one last flash of gold before Stiles closes his eyes, then she follows his lead.

The rain has stopped, the forest is noiseless, the only sound Lydia can hear is the pounding of her heart. To her, this moment is more intimate than a kiss. Stiles has not made a move, but his patience is strengthening the trust she has in him, opening her up, and making her feel alive during one of the darkest times in her life. She doesn't think she deserves him, but he is the best thing to ever happen to her and she just wants him to stay with her.

"Stiles?" she whispers.

"Yeah, Lydia."

"Will you lie down with me for a while?"

"Yeah…yeah of course."

He turns to rearrange the pillows behind them, grabs an extra blanket, and slides onto his left side, holding his arms open for her. Lydia melts into him, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder and pulling the blanket over them both. She shifts until she is comfortable, then plays with the zipper of his sweatshirt while he soothingly rubs circles along her spine. It feels so good that it makes her body quiver.

"Are you warm enough?" he asks, stopping his hands.

She nods against him and waits for him to resume massaging her back. When he does, it makes her want to lift the veil, let him see inside, see how broken she is, and find out if he still cares.

"My mom left flowers in my room...and a big diamond pendant," she says, unable to hide the disdain in her voice.

He twists his mouth…somewhere in between a pout and a frown. "Not exactly _you_ …is it?"

"No."

Stiles picks up her hand, nudging her dainty gold ring with his thumb. " _This_ is you."

 _He pays attention._ All she wants is for someone to show her that they know her, _really know her_ , and with three little words, Stiles does that. He knows how to make her feel better and he never misses an opportunity to prove it. _Stiles always knows._

"She thinks she can just…buy me things and it that makes everything alright, but she's never there for me anymore."

 _He listens._ He can tell she has more to say…so he just listens, _because he is Stiles_ and he is capable of deciphering the moments when she just wants to be heard.

"She used to be different, when my dad first left…but ever since she got this promotion…she's never there…and she left a card and a voicemail…and she sounded so damn cheerful that it made me sick…and I don't want to call her back because..."

"Because even though you're angry, you still miss her…but you don't want her to know that."

"Yeah. Does that make me a horrible person?"

"No, it makes you human."

"Sometimes…" she whispers, "…sometimes I want to just take Prada and leave. I bet my mother wouldn't even notice."

He briefly closes his eyes, like it hurts him to hear the words just as much as it hurts her to say them. "Lydia, I'm sure that's not true."

"I'm not."

"Well I'd notice. I don't want you to go. I'd miss you so much. I'd be…devastated," his tone is soft and permeates with emotion, and she believes him.

 _He said devastated._ The notion leaves her searching for a response that is worthy of him. His arms, and his hands, and his words are connecting with the most fragile parts of her. Stiles is keeping her from falling apart. Her ever-growing love for him makes her feel brave – not reckless enough to say she loves him, but bold enough to say something equally meaningful.

"I'd come back to you."

His expression is a mixture of amazement and contentment and Lydia sees it again – all of his love radiating from a face that makes her want to kiss him and dissolve into him all at once.

But right on cue, Lydia's fear starts to slither out from its hiding place. She doesn't want to let it shut her down, so she tries to divert the conversation just enough to keep the monster at bay. "We were going to go to Paris this summer…Allison and I."

"You were?"

"I was going to tell you…but things got so…"

"Yeah, I know."

"Chris said we could stay in his apartment in the 7th arrondissement for two weeks. Allison showed me pictures last month. It's beautiful. It has floor to ceiling windows and a balcony that overlooks Rue de Grenelle."

"I bet you had the entire trip planned already."

"Yeah. We did."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

Lydia's eyes start misting, but the depth of his voice lulls her into such a secure state that she wants to share more of herself with him. "We were going to visit all of the gardens I've been dreaming of since I was a little girl…like Jardin du Luxembourg and Jardin de Plants. We were going to walk along the Seine and cross Pont Royal to spend a day in the 8th. That's where the Louvre and the Jardins du Tuileries are. There's a museum there called Musée de l'Orangerie. We wanted to see the impressionist paintings by Degas, and Cézanne, and Monet. We could have walked the Champs-Élysées all of the way down to the Arc de Triomphe. At the Île de la Cité, across Pont Neuf, we could have seen Notre Dame and had lunch under the chestnut trees at Place Dauphine."

"What else were you going to do Lyds?" he coaxes, wiping fresh tears from her cheeks.

"We would have gone to Champs-de-Mars…ride the carousel, spend an entire day in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, then see it lit up at night. We would have been there to watch the fireworks on Bastille Day. We were going to go shopping at Le Bon Marché and try all the best cafés and pâtisseries…the well-known ones like Ladurée and Odette, and the ones that only the locals know. We were going to talk all night, then sleep 'til noon…and start all over again. We aren't going to do any of that now. Stiles, we'll never do anything together again…and it hurts _so much_."

Tears are rolling sideways across Lydia's face from her left eye to her right, then pooling and absorbing into his sweatshirt. She is painfully aware that Stiles is trying to withhold his own sobs, his chest erratically heaving against her.

"Lydia…I'm so sorry. I should have never…it's all m—"

"What was it like for you?...When your mom…" she interrupts. She realizes he was about to blame himself for what happened to Allison and she can't hear it. _It wasn't his fault. It was never his fault._

He bites his lip, blinking with surprise. Then, he opens his mouth to speak but no sound comes out. Lydia immediately regrets her words. She ducks her head down, afraid to see the hurt in his eyes.

"Oh my god…Stiles…I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you that. I had no right…"

He tucks his index finger under her chin and encourages her to look at him. There is no hurt or anger, only understanding.

"It's okay. I was just…surprised…you've never asked about her before."

Sneaking her hands in between them to dry his cheeks with her palms, she explains, "I wanted to, but I thought…maybe you didn't want to talk about her with me."

He furrows his brows. "Why?"

"Because I didn't really know her."

"I wish you had – she'd have really liked you."

"You think so?"

"I know it."

"Will you tell me then…what was it like for you?" she repeats.

He lets go of her chin to scratch at his jaw and takes a deep breath. "I…uh…it felt like this giant empty space appeared out of nowhere…one I didn't even know could exist."

"I feel like that now…like there's this blank space next to me, where Allison should be standing, and no one is ever going to fill it…and I don't want anyone to because…it's _her_ space. Letting anyone else there would be wrong. You know?"

"Yeah, I do," he replies, and she knows he means it.

"What's your favorite memory of your mom?" she asks, reaching up to smooth his hair without even thinking about it, and just like that…the feeling she has been searching for resurfaces – they are just Stiles and Lydia again.

"That's easy…every day. Every single day. She…she always used to wake me up in the morning. I was never a great sleeper, so the sound of her cracking the door open would wake me, but I'd pretend to still be sleeping while she tip-toed across the room. Then, she would sit next to me on the bed and start singing…until I gave in and opened my eyes for her."

"What did she sing?"

"Ah…god…anything that popped into her head at the time. The Beatles were her favorite, but also Kansas, Sinatra, Pat Benatar, songs from old musicals…she even had a boy band phase," he elaborates, with a small smirk. "I swear she knew every lyric to every song ever written. I…the first morning after she died, I thought I heard her singing Hey Jude…I woke up _convinced_ she wasn't gone…that losing her was just a nightmare, but then I realized it wasn't. That happened pretty much every morning…for months. I'd open my eyes and it would hit me… _she's not here and she's not coming back_ …and…"

"And you felt like you lost her all over again," she finishes for him.

"Yeah, exactly."

"Does it last?"

He gives her one of his upside-down smiles and runs his hand through her hair, all of the way from the crown of her head to the ends in one smooth movement. "No…but honestly, the first time I woke up and I didn't hear her, I felt awful. I thought it meant I was forgetting her…that I had gotten over her…and that it was too soon." He starts twirling the ends of Lydia's hair in his fingers before continuing. "But that's not what it was. You don't get over that kind of loss…you just…change, so you can deal with it."

She watches his hands as he continues to play with her hair, her heart continually quickening. She remembers hearing once, that you know you love someone when even the sight of their hands sets your heart ablaze. "What do you mean?" she asks.

"That empty space is there, but I'm used to it now. So instead of wanting to cry every time I think of her, I can just stop and be thankful that she is still on my mind…that she hasn't really left me."

"Stiles?"

"Hmm…"

"Do you think it will be like that for me?"

He kisses her forehead, letting his lips linger. "Yeah…you'll get there. It just takes time."

Lydia relaxes further as the pair gradually settle into lighter conversation. Stiles helps her refocus her history paper, and she helps him with the algebra homework they've been assigned. They share the cupcake, passing a fork between them until every crumb is devoured. She is helpless as he hypnotizes her with his mouth – lips and teeth gliding over the prongs of the fork, tongue jutting out every now and then to capture a stray cake crumb. There's a patch of melted ganache frosting punctuating his cupid's bow and she literally has to pinch herself to keep from kissing it off of him. She can't leave it there. It's driving her crazy...and she is staring.

"What?" he asks.

"You have some chocolate…" she answers, pointing towards his lip.

"Oh…" He glides his tongue over lips that are curling ever so slightly into a smirk, but he misses the mark. "Did I get it?"

"No," Lydia tells him, as an idea pops into her head. Before she has time to change her mind, she acts. "Here, let me…" She rests her fingertips on his jaw and dabs at the chocolate with the pad of her thumb. His lips are parted and moist. She barely grazes the tip of his tongue as she moves her finger down the center of his mouth passing his bottom lip and reluctantly dragging her hand away. Without a second thought, she dips her thumb into her mouth for a taste. She tries her best to look innocent when his eyes noticeably widen with shock. By the self-conscious way he shifts his hips away from her, she figures she was less than convincing.

The rain resumes and intensifies into a thunderstorm. Lightning flashes as large droplets pound against the roof of the Jeep, but Lydia feels safe and protected. She gets lost in Stiles, over and over again – in his eyes, in the sound of his voice, in the sensation of his hands on her. She never wants him to let go.

She tries to tell him how much she needs him, but she is so emotional that the words fail her. "Stiles, I don't want to go back to my house. It's too big and…empty…and I'm…I need..."

"Lydia, of course you're not going back there. You and Prada are staying with me and my dad."

"Won't he mind?"

He looks at her incredulously, "Why would he? He adores you?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Could we stay here a while longer?"

"We can stay as long as you want."

Lydia snuggles into his arms. She listens to the sound of his heartbeat, thankful that he is still with her. Two days ago, Stiles was dying, but he came back to her – just like she knew he would.

* * *

It's nearly 11 PM when Stiles and Lydia return home. Lydia fills Prada's water bowl and sets up the pup's bed with her blanket and toy duck… _because Stiles thought of everything_. Then she arranges her lilacs in a vase, while Stiles heats some leftover soup and makes sandwiches for them both. She watches him move about the kitchen. Having shed his sweatshirt, he stands before her in well-worn jeans and a basic white tee that reveals sculpted shoulders and a narrow torso that she never tires of admiring. Whenever their eyes meet, Lydia has the distinct impression that she has found something she didn't know she was missing.

They settle on the couch in the living room to eat and watch television together for a while. Lydia can see that Stiles is exhausted. His movements are slow, his eyes are red, lids heavy, and she keeps catching him yawning. She worries that he is not getting better, that if anything he is getting worse because he is too focused on taking care of her. The only significant rest he had was in the hospital that first night, under sedation. He needs to rest in his own bed, not to spend another night of interrupted sleep on the couch, consoling her through nightmares. She wants him to stay with her, but her concern for his well-being overshadows her fear of being without him.

"Stiles, you should go to bed."

As soon as the suggestion passes her lips, the distance between his bedroom and the living room seems like too much. The reflex incites panic inside of her as her heart and mind battle for control. It's impossible for Lydia to ignore the way she is drawn to Stiles. The budding desire to let him in, to fully rely on him, to hand him a heart that has already been damaged – that desire now consistently makes its presence known, weakening her resolve with every minute they spend together. Her heart begs her to allow herself closer, but her mind tells her she will lose him. Part of her wants to give in, but another part worries that she already depends on Stiles more than she should depend on anyone, and it makes her uneasy.

"I'm fine here," he answers. "The bed is for you."

"You're still recovering. You need to rest."

"So do you…and _you_ are supposed to be letting me take care of you today," he reminds her.

"Yesterday."

"Huh?"

"It's after midnight…so it's not my birthday anymore," she corrects.

"Lydia…"

"What?"

"If you aren't going to sleep, then neither am I."

"Just because I'm not tired, that doesn't mean you have to stay up."

"Come on…you have to be," he insists, touching her shoulder. "You barely slept last night, you were up early this morning…and I saw you yawning when—"

"Stiles, _I said I'm not tired!_ So just drop it, _okay?"_ Lydia snaps; her pointed tongue a blade against her teeth.

She looks away. Twisting her mouth into a pout, she picks up the remote control and raises the volume of the television a few notches, before pushing back into the couch with her arms crossed. She doesn't want to tell Stiles that she is afraid to go to sleep or the reason why, because she knows he is going to blame himself. On top of that, she is afraid to reveal how dependent she is by asking him to stay with her. From the corner of her eye, she can see him staring, his mouth gaping open in surprise at the sharp change in her tone. Her stomach lurches because she was already hyper-aware the pain he is in and she hates that she is making it worse.

"Fine," he says, leaning back and fidgeting uncomfortably beside her.

"Fine," she repeats.

Neither of them speaks for a few minutes, Lydia stares blankly at the flashing screen of the television wondering what Stiles is thinking.

After a few minutes, he rubs his face with both hands and exhales with frustration. Lydia feels him shift next to her. She holds her breath, fearful that he is going to get up and leave her there – alone. _I love you. I need you. Please don't go. Please don't leave me._

He doesn't leave. He stretches across her body for the over-sized plaid blanket that is draped over the couch, unfolds it, and covers her.

She can't even believe he is real sometimes. _He is just too good to be true._ She looks over her shoulder at him, embarrassed and riddled with guilt. She finds the remote control again – this time, in order to shut the television. Pausing for only a second, she timidly draws the blanket over Stiles and leans her head on his chest. "I'm sorry," she whimpers into his neck. "Stiles, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…please forgive me."

It takes mere seconds for Stiles to relax against her, draping his arm over her shoulder and pulling her close. "It's alright. I know why you don't want to sleep," he tells her, voice cracking over the words.

She remains silent, trying to withhold a sob.

"Lydia, _please talk to me_. I want to help you."

His tone, full of affection and understanding, along with the vibrations of his voice under Lydia's ear, help to reassure her. Glancing up at him hesitantly, she slides her hand across his stomach. She can't help but notice how his abdominal muscles tighten against her fingertips as she searches for his hand under the covers.

"When I close my eyes…when I let myself sleep…the nightmares…I see her…I see it happening all over again. I'm in the tunnels with you, but I can see Allison…and Scott, and I can hear the sound of my own scream."

She doesn't recount the rest of her nightmare – how when Allison collapses, Stiles disappears from underneath her, leaving behind nothing but a wisp of fog and mist. If she admits it, that will make it real.

"I hate this, Lydia. I hate that she's gone. I hate that you are hurting so much. It should never have happened. If—"

He cries, and she breaks…because it's her fault. If she had just been able to save Allison, Stiles wouldn't be burdening himself with so much blame. She lifts her head to make eye contact with him. "Stiles, _please don't_. I know you think it's your fault…but it isn't. I could never blame you for what happened."

The self-blame that is impressed on his face makes her throat tighten. His eyes glisten as droplets trickle down his cheeks. She can feel his chest shake as he sniffles…once, twice…three times.

"But…I—"

" _No_. It isn't true. _You have to stop_. Please. _Please, Stiles…for me?"_ Lydia grips his shoulder firmly, then continually glides her hand from his collarbone to his chest, in an attempt to ease his distress.

He gives her that look – the one that tells her there is nothing in the world he can deny her. If she asks, he will do just about anything. She is aware of it and she is using it right now, but she is determined never to take advantage of it – of him – because Stiles is precious to her.

"Okay," he concedes, but she knows he can't accept it yet.

Lydia stares at him for an extended moment while he pokes at his cheek with his tongue. "Stiles, look…I'll try for you. Alright? I will. I'll try to sleep…just…"

"What is it?" he asks tenderly, gold flecks calling out to her from under a canopy of dark lashes…and he is grasping her hand which has remained on his chest…and her need for him wins out.

"Maybe…we could both stay here…"

His eyes are still sad, but he quirks one side of his mouth before lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her palm. "Yeah, we could do that."

"And if…if I…wake up because…"

"Then I'll be here," he says, strength working back into his tone. "Lydia, I'm right here."

"Okay," she replies.

Then she rests her head upon his shoulder, and Stiles leans his cheek against her forehead. They settle in together – Lydia squeezing his hand, and Stiles spinning the dainty gold ring that graces her index finger with his thumb. Eventually, they drift off; Lydia first, Stiles only after he is sure she is asleep. When she wakes from a nightmare a few hours later, Stiles is there to comfort her — and that is what makes all the difference.


	6. The Hurt is for the Better

**Present Day:** March 25

As soon as Stiles opens his eyes on Monday morning, he reaches for his phone. He is hoping against hope for a text or a voicemail from Lydia. Just one. One that tells him in any possible way, shape, or form that he was wrong – that she didn't want him to go. There are none. He is not surprised, but it hurts.

Slowly sitting up, he leans his elbows on his knees, and rubs the back of his neck. After a few minutes, he drags himself out of bed. He makes sure the water in the shower is as hot as possible and adds an extra layer of clothing underneath his plaid, because he can't seem to get warm. He brushes his teeth and runs two unsteady hands through his hair, avoiding the bathroom mirror because he doesn't want to see what he looks like without Lydia. Picking up his books and his keys, which are next to the remnants of her bracelet, he then pads down the hallway and passes through the living room...where he spent two nights sleeping with her the couch.

In the kitchen, he heads to the refrigerator to see if his dad left any messages. There's a bright yellow Post-it tagged to the freezer door: _It's going to be another late one. There are some new towels for Lydia in the laundry room._ He stares at her name. _Lydia._ He wants to say it out loud, make her real again, but he can't. He crinkles the note in his hand, gruffly opens the refrigerator and slams it shut. He has no appetite anyway. It feels like there is a massive pit lodged in the center of his stomach.

He lifts a hand to adjust the strap of his backpack, and his fingertips brush against one of the chairs that surround the small table. Not just any chair, the one to the left of his…always on the left – Lydia's chair. She is not there, and he misses her — so much. _Blueberry are my favorite_ , he hears her say to his dad. Just a few words but they are spoken with such emotion…like she can't believe a father would ever go through the trouble of cooking for her. He thinks he cost her that too – the chance to spend more time with his dad, to see that fathers can be there for their kids, that they can choose to do things for them because they love them. He shuts his eyes to expunge the burning memory of her radiant image, but even then, he sees her; a bright spot scorched into his retinas, glowing through the darkness.

Passing through the living room on his way out of the house, it strikes him that Prada is not curled up in her preferred nook under the coffee table. He misses her too. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but it won't budge. He locks the front door behind him, shrugs into the cold, and drives to school in silence. The passenger's seat is empty, but it shouldn't be.

* * *

Lydia and Scott are not at school when Stiles arrives, but he didn't expect them to be there. He wanders the halls trying to clear his head before classes begin. He sees Lydia everywhere. Not a full-fledged apparition, but glimpses of her – the kind that make him blink his eyes clear, make his heart rush, and make him think he is losing his mind…again. She is in the flash of strawberry-blonde hair that can't possibly be hers, because no other girl in school (probably not even the world) has or has ever been able to reproduce that exact same shade (though several have tried). She is in the wisp of pale blue fabric that stands apart in a sea of colors as he walks down the hallway. She is in the light that pours out of the locker room and tempts him to remember. She is even in the distance that he put between them; he thinks he smells her perfume lingering there, in the now empty space…where she used to stand.

It hasn't even been twelve hours since he saw her, but Stiles misses Lydia so much that it hurts every cell in his body. His eyes sting with tears that won't fall because a part of him clings to the idea that maybe he was wrong. _Maybe she didn't want me to leave. Maybe she is missing me too._ If he was right, and she did want him to leave, then he can't imagine how he is going to survive when she comes back to school. He knows it will be worse when she is so close…yet still so far out of his reach. _There is still time though, maybe it was all a mistake._

He passes Allison's locker on the way to his first class. He misses her, but he doesn't see her. He only feels her presence every time someone offers a kind word that he doesn't think he deserves to hear. He loved her too. _Who could possibly get to know Allison and not love her?_ She was amazing – strong and brave, selfless and pure-hearted too; a warrior with a heart of gold. She was always kind to him, and most importantly, she made two of the most important people in his life happy. She was the energy that brought their pack of four together and without her, they have already fallen apart.

Outside the library, he observes Allison's memorial, hating the fact that he is already thinking of her in the past tense. It makes him sick to see the mass of flowers and candles meant to pay her honor because none of the people standing in front of it are her friends. He wants to pass it by, but it seems disrespectful not to stop. The display is shabby from a few days' worth of strange hands touching it; the disheveled appearance worse than if it had never been made at all.

When the cluster of voyeurs move along, Stiles steps closer and straightens Allison's photo. She deserved better. He thinks of Lydia. She deserved better too. He misses them both and he despises himself. The pain is made worse because he wouldn't have to be missing either of them if he had been stronger, if he had fought harder, if he hadn't allowed so much damage to be done. He walks away. He thinks he hears the echoing sound of Lydia crying, and it pierces him like a blade.

* * *

Stiles makes it through half of the day, struggling to focus on his work because everything reminds him of Lydia – even algebraic equations. He tears a piece of paper from his notebook and quickly scratches out few lines: _Please call me. Tell me I was wrong. Tell me I'm an idiot. Tell me to come back to you._ Folding the message and tucking it into his shirt pocket, he lifts his head and tries to focus for the remaining six minutes of class. He knows he shouldn't, but he repeatedly checks his messages. _Still nothing_. It crosses his mind that maybe Lydia is waiting for lunchtime, so they can talk. He clings to the hope for as long as he can.

In the cafeteria, Malia makes a beeline to where he is sitting. It's only her first day of school and he guesses she needs some company, but after the conversation they had last night, Stiles feels awkward being alone with her. He wonders if this is how Lydia used to feel. He really hopes not. He still has no appetite, but he chokes down half of his food because it is there, and he needs something to do. His phone is next to him the entire time, just in case Lydia calls. The sadness and restlessness grow with each passing minute – each is one minute less to talk to her before his next class.

When he gets up to discard the remainders of his lunch, thoughts still consumed with Lydia, he leaves his phone behind. It is left unguarded while he speaks to Danny for a few minutes. Eventually, Stiles realizes his mistake and quickly returns to retrieve his phone, but there are no messages. The rest of the day drags on and his anxiety builds, but he gets through it.

* * *

After school, Stiles decides to drive over to Scott's to check on him. He absentmindedly passes his destination, automatically heading in the direction of Lydia's house. When he realizes what he is doing, Stiles skids to a stop, puts the Jeep in reverse, and backs down the block to park outside 821 Williamson Road, the McCall home.

He sits for a while, looking over at Lydia's seat contemplating the idea of calling her. If he could just hear her voice, hear that she is alright, then maybe he could get some sense of peace. Holding his phone in the palm of his shaking hand, Stiles scrolls through his contacts to Lydia's number, bringing up her picture. He looks at her big bright eyes, sweet little nose, and rosy cheeks. One curled hand partially covers her mouth. She is trying to hide a vibrant smile – the one that spread across her lips when he agreed to teach her how to drive stick shift.

From the moment she asked, he had every intention of saying yes. In all honesty, she had him at: _Stiles will you_ … but he feigned reluctance in order to buy himself time to get his phone out, so he could capture her expression upon finally hearing the word _yes_. In the meantime, she pleaded and pouted a bit. _Sti—les…pleeease… I promise, I won't hurt Roscoe_ … she continued, subtly batting her lashes and tilting her head to one side at first, then more deliberately leaning into him and sliding her arms between his layers of plaid and solid cotton. It escalated quickly. She tickled his sides and giggled while he squirmed, then she wrapped her arms around his waist, shamelessly working to persuade him to bend to her will. As if he needed to be persuaded. As if there was anything he could or would ever deny her. It was the most adorable thing he had ever seen, and he snapped a quick picture, holding her close to him with one arm and maneuvering his phone above her reach with the other, so she couldn't stop him. He would give anything to revisit that moment, to see her be happy like she was that day, to feel her arms around him, her chin on his chest, the hair from her topknot tickling the skin above his lip.

Sliding his phone back into his pocket, he scolds himself for the mistake he was about to make. _What the hell is wrong with me? How can I even think of calling her right now…disrespecting her needs like that…risk her having a setback, just to ease my own pain?_ He wonders if she is alright, if she slept through the night. _What if she still had flashbacks and she was all alone with no one to hold her?_ His stomach screws into a tight knot. He is tormented by the thought of Lydia crying in the darkness, shivering and afraid…because of him. He tells himself that is not what happened. Now that he is gone, now that the burden of having to tell a friend that he scares her has been lifted from her shoulders, Lydia will probably sleep just fine. He hates it, but at the same time he needs it to be true. Above all else, he just needs for her to be okay.

He pushes himself out of the Jeep, shuddering from the dampness in the air as he walks up the path and stairs to the front door. He enters with his key, locks the door behind him, and calls out to his friend.

"Scott?"

"Up here," his voice carries from above.

Stiles strides the flight of steps, taking two at a time, then cuts to the right, towards Scott's bedroom. "Hey, how are you holding up?" he asks from the doorway.

Scott is sitting on the edge of his bed. He is still in his pajamas – hair uncombed, jaw perforated with stubble, eyes dark and tired. He shrugs his shoulders; shadowed ghost of the person Stiles grew up with, looking up at him.

"Did you get any sleep?"

"Yeah…woke up about half an hour ago," he answers, tossing his cell phone towards the middle of the bed. "I…uh…just got off the phone with Lydia."

Stiles feels his pulse accelerate at the misery he sees in his best friend's eyes and at the sound of Lydia's name. The same name that has been running through his mind but, for the first time in years, hasn't passed his lips all day. He wonders if she said anything to Scott about what happened between them. "She called?" he questions rather brusquely.

Scott is puzzled by the tone of his friend's voice and the rapid sound of his heartbeat, "No…I called her. I figured with you at school all day, she might be lonely."

"Oh," he replies, attempting to gather control of himself. "How is she?"

"I dunno…she sounds…different."

"Good different?" He chews on his thumb, waiting for a reply, bracing himself for the stinging confirmation that Lydia is already better off without him, watching as Scott runs a hand over his face while he searches for words.

"She…uh…seemed sort of dazed…not like herself. She said she was sleeping when I called, but…I think there was something else. I didn't want to push. You should ask her when you get back there though, she has an easier time opening up to you."

"I can't do that," Stiles remarks quietly.

"Why not?"

"I left."

"What?"

"I left…last night. I left and…I'm not going back."

There is a hollow quality to Stiles's response that immediately puts Scott on alert. While a year or so before he wouldn't have imagined the closeness that developed between Lydia and Stiles, now he can't imagine them being separated from each other. He has watched them grow from awkward acquaintances, to real friends, to…something more. He has seen them depend on each other, challenge each other, support each other, and risk their lives for each other without hesitation.

He begins firing off questions in a rush, "Dude, what do you mean? What happened? Why wouldn't you go back?"

"Because I'm making her worse," Stiles explains.

The words are rough against his tongue, and they leave a bad taste in his mouth. He can't meet Scott's stare, so he averts his eyes. The first thing to cross his sight line is a photo of Allison and Lydia. His chest automatically constricts with regret.

"Stiles, that's ridiculous. She needs you." Scott asserts, standing up.

"No, she doesn't."

" _Is that what she said?_ Because you know Lydia…she pushes back sometimes…but it's just her way."

"No," he answers, eyes fixed on the floor.

Scott taps Stiles on the shoulder with the back of his hand to get his attention. "Then _why the hell_ would you leave her all alone? You know her mom is out of town – _again_. She needs someone…not just someone – _she needs you_ …more than ever. _Who is supposed to help her?"_

His voice elevates swiftly. He doesn't mean for it to, but he knows Stiles isn't telling him the entire story. Scott is pressed with the notion that he has let his friend down. In truth, he hasn't been worrying about Lydia as much as he ought to, because he knew Stiles was with her. Now, he is picturing her grieving for Allison – all alone – and it bothers him a great deal.

"It can't…it can't be me. Okay? Scott…y—you didn't see the look in her eyes. I know her. She…she was terrified." His voice breaks over the words. He pictures the fear he saw in Lydia, and it tears him up inside.

Scott deliberately softens his tone. "Of course she is. She just lost her best friend…and she thinks she could have prevented it."

"It's more than that. She's…afraid of me," Stiles responds, voice struggling over the tightness in his throat.

"What? She trusts you. Why would she be—"

"Because of the things I did."

"Stiles, that wasn't you. She knows that, _we all do_ …well, everyone but you," Scott argues, shaking his head.

"I'm telling you she's—"

"No, I don't believe it, so I'll ask again _. Is that what Lydia said?_ Did she say the words: Stiles, I'm afraid of you, and I want you to go?"

"Not in those words, no. She didn't have to. I could see it...feel it even. I have _never_ seen her that scared."

"That's exactly why _you_ should be with her. It's been non-stop chaos around here, and she needs time…that's all."

"Yeah, she needs time away from me," he insists, poking at his own chest with a shaky index finger. "You know…she told me about that night…when she was missing. She could barely get the words out…she was crying so hard. It—it had its hands all over her."

Scott steps towards Stiles. "But why are you assuming— Oh…I get where you are going with this…and you're wrong."

"I _can't_ be the one to keep hurting her! The more I want to protect her, the more I let her get hurt. I keep failing her. This is my chance…to help her _for once!_ "

Stiles feels himself losing his patience. He doesn't want any of what he is saying to be true…but it is, and it grieves him to no end to have to insist that his worst fear is a reality. His eyes are burning as they strain to withhold tears.

"When have you _ever_ —" Scott begins.

"The reason _that thing_ was able to take her from us in the first place was because everyone was distracted by what was going on with me!"

"Stiles, we all—"

"But let's go back further. You want me to start listing all of the times I've let her down already? Let's start with Peter…"

"Stiles, that—"

"…then there's Jackson…and Jennif—"

"Stiles, stop! _They_ hurt her, _not you!"_ Scott is aware of how loudly he is shouting and takes a breath to calm himself. "Look, I know… _I know_ it kills you to see anything bad happen to her, but you can't control what other people do. You help her all the time – the same way she helps you. Anyone can see that."

"That was before. Now, there's this _thing_ between us…this ugly thing that happened, something that I can't scrub out, or erase, or undo. Scott, _you know_ how I feel about her." He runs his hand over his forehead, passing his fingers over his eyes to wipe away any stray tears that may have escaped. "If I thought there was another way – _any possible way_ that I could help her and still be with her…but I've ruined everything. We were _so close_ , damn it, _we were so close_ …and I screwed it all up."

"I don't know what to say... I wasn't there, but I saw the way she was clinging to you at the funeral…and the whole week before. Stiles, you've been her rock…just like she has been for you. Seeing the two of you together…you have no idea what that did for me…knowing that you had each other. I think you've got this wrong. I know you matter to her, even more than she lets on. Lydia made a _real_ connection with you…bonds like that don't just go away. _She needs you_."

Stiles paces a few steps, then sits on the edge of the bed, rests his elbows on his knees, and runs his hands roughly through his hair. He looks up at Scott, shaking his head incredulously.

"Scott, what was I supposed to do? She asked me to help her. _Me._ She was practically begging me to understand her last night. I could tell she didn't want to hurt me, but it's just too much for her to deal with on top of everything else…losing her best friend, trying to comprehend being a banshee, all of the pressure her parents put on her. She doesn't need to feel weighed down by some sort of obligation to me…because of what we've been through…or because she is trying to spare my feelings. Anyway, I left, and I haven't heard from her, so I must be right…it is what she needed."

"I still think you should talk to her. You can't be sure unless you hear her say it."

An image of Lydia sobbing flashes before Stiles's eyes. He grabs at the front of his shirt recalling the warm wetness of her tears soaking through it. He stands up again, frowning and folding his arms across his chest. "I'm not going to put her through that again. If you could have seen what it took for her to tell me…and the way she did… She was so broken up about it, but still so sweet."

"That just _proves_ she cares about you," Scott stresses.

"Caring about someone and being able to have them in your life are two different things. If _anyone_ knows that…it's you. I haven't forgotten what you did for…Allison…when she needed time. You were amazing – you understood, you didn't pressure her or hold any resentment…and it helped her."

Stiles thinks of Scott writhing in agony at the opposite end of a sword, held by his own blood-stained hands. If he looks down, he is sure that his palms and fingers will be coated with the slick red substance. He can almost smell the metallic note assaulting his senses, and he has to choke back a gag. The guilt he feels for bringing Allison into their discussion is immense. He doesn't think he is worthy of even saying her name anymore, but he needs Scott to understand. He needs Scott to tell him that he is doing the right thing, so he can try to live with it.

"That was different. Allison…told me she was breaking up with me…in those words." Scott pauses over Allison's name. He noticed that Stiles did too, and he knows why. The amount of self-blame emanating off his best friend's shoulders is overwhelming and unwarranted. He doesn't know how he is ever going to convince Stiles that it wasn't his fault.

"But you knew… _before she said it_. Didn't you?"

"I… Yeah…I did," Scott admits quietly.

"So, then you get it. She told me that it hurts to be around me…in her own way. If I can do the same for her…if I can even come _close_ to doing what you did for Allison, then I have to try. Scott…she's ev— she's everything…"

"I know, but Stiles…what about you? You need her."

"It doesn't matter. I'll deal with it. If it means that she gets through this…that she gets better, that she suffers even _one second_ less…then…I'll deal with it."

Scott puts his hand on Stiles's shoulder and pulls him into a hug. It saddens him to know that Stiles has no idea how selfless and strong he really is. He can feel the pain radiating from his friend's back and it knocks the breath out of him. He remembers what it feels like…he feels it still.

Stiles leans into him for a minute, then breaks from the embrace. He keeps his head down and focuses on rubbing the nape of his sore neck, rather than looking at Scott.

"Scott would you do something for me?"

"Sure," he replies, without a hint of reluctance.

"Would you…look out for her? _Please_." His lips are quivering over the words. He resents himself for asking, but he needs reassurance that someone will be there to take care of Lydia. He needs to know that someone he trusts – his best friend, his brother – can do what he is unable to do.

"Of course, you don't even have to ask. I'll do anything I can for her…and for you."

"Thanks," he whispers before coughing to clear his throat. "I…uh…better get going. I've got to check in with my dad."

"Alright."

Stiles turns to leave but Scott calls out to him.

"Stiles?

"Hmm…"

"Don't give up on Lydia…something doesn't add up here. You guys are so…good together."

Stiles looks at the floor and sighs. The next words to leave his mouth would barely be audible if not for Scott's hearing abilities. "We were."


	7. Between Sleep and Awake

Stiles heads to the Beacon County Sheriff's Station thinking about his talk with Scott, wishing that his best friend could be right, but woefully convinced that he is not. He spends an hour with his dad, thankful for the many interruptions that prevent any kind of in-depth discussion between them. He drives home alone, imagining Lydia sitting next to him; intermittent light of streetlamps illuminating her porcelain skin, copper tresses blowing in the breeze, and a smile that she is trying to hide ghosting across her lips.

The house is dark and noiseless when he enters. He flicks on a few lights, drops his keys on the table by the door, and is startled by the loud clanking sound they make against the wood. He glances towards the kitchen but decides against eating because the knot in his stomach has expanded. Then, he stares down the hallway which leads to his bedroom, unable to move. He has lived in this house for his entire life, had meals in the same kitchen, slept in the same room, but now, it feels…wrong.

In the span of a week, Lydia had breathed new life back into the house. Now, it's gone again. The last time the house felt this empty was when he came home from the hospital after his mother died…and it lasted for months. _Lydia's not dead. She is alive…and she is better off without me,_ he reminds himself.

He goes to his bedroom and starts his homework but ends up leaving half of it to finish during a free period the next day. He grabs mismatched pajamas from the chest of drawers and heads to the bathroom to wash. For a split second, when Stiles reenters the bedroom, he expects to see Lydia sitting on his bed, legs crossed under her, giant textbook or sketchpad in her lap. After just a few days, he had grown accustomed to her comforting presence, the constant proximity they shared, the tugging he could feel beneath his ribs whenever she shifted around the room. He wants it all back. He wants her back. His astoundingly smart, inconceivably strong, and breathtakingly beautiful, Lydia.

 _Just two nights ago she was here. She is real, and she was in this bed…with me._ _It was real. Wasn't it?_ He speaks her name for the first time since the previous night, "Lydia." The sound rings hollow in his ears, failing to make his memories seem any more real. "Lydia," he repeats, but without her there to respond, it hurts to say it.

Stiles rubs his temples, trying to force away the cold echo of his own voice. _Maybe she was here, but she isn't anymore._

He just needs today to be over – an entire miserable day without once hearing her voice or feeling the warmth she can somehow transmit through delicate hands that are always just a tad cold. He climbs into bed and tries to fall asleep for the second night without his love curled up against him, without her nose pressed into his neck or her breath running across his throat, without her eyelashes kissing his jaw or her fingers intertwined with his. It is just as difficult as the first time, if not more.

* * *

 **Four Days Earlier:** March 21

Stiles enters the house, carrying Prada after another walk. His soles squeak against the wood floors as he steps into the hallway and locks the door behind him. "Lyds, we're back," he calls.

"I'm in here," she answers.

He sets Prada down, hangs his baseball jacket on the coat rack, kicks off his wet sneakers, and follows the sweet sound of Lydia's voice to the kitchen. She is standing at the counter, opening a few cans of tomatoes.

"Hey," he says softly, stepping next to her and resting his hand between her shoulder blades. "What's this?"

"Linguine and marinara sauce. Scott will be over in half an hour or so."

"You didn't have to do this. We could have ordered a pizza or something."

"The two of you would live off of pizza if you could… Wouldn't you?" she asks with a playful roll of her eyes.

Stiles nods his head in agreement. "Pretty much."

"Anyway, it's not a big deal," she shrugs, as she finely chops an onion. "It's one of like three things I know how to make."

He kisses the top of her head. "Can I help?"

"Sure." She tosses some crushed garlic into a saucepan. It sizzles as soon as it hits the hot olive oil. "You can put a pot of water up for the pasta and reach the basil and oregano for me."

Stiles leans over her to take the dried spices from the shelf above her head and sets them on the counter. Moving to the pantry, he selects a large pot which he fills with water and sets on the back burner. The aroma of sautéed onions wafts up to greet him as he leans over Lydia's shoulder to observe what she is doing. She gently stirs the onions in with the garlic, sprinkles them with salt, lowers the heat, and covers the saucepan with its lid. When she turns to face him, her eyes are watering.

"Lydia?"

"It's the onions," she sniffles. "They produce a chemical irritant called syn-propanethial-S-oxide. It stimulates the lacrimal glands, and they release tears. It's noth—" she continues over trembling lips.

"Lyds…" he interrupts, touching her cheek to trace her tears with his fingertips.

She squeezes her eyes shut, reaching for his forearm and gripping him so tightly that her fingers leave white imprints on his skin. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's just us… Okay? It's just us, and you can tell me."

Her eyes slowly open, large droplets dangling from her lashes. "Sometimes…on Saturday nights…Allison would come over, and I'd make this for her. She would always bring chocolate chip cookies…and after dinner we would climb into my bed to share them…and talk until we fell asleep." Lydia gasps, like it hurts her to breathe. "Stiles, I… I miss her so much."

It's as though there are no limits to the number of ways she can suffer. The thought that he could have prevented it, torments him. He wishes he could do something to take her pain away.

Lydia steps away from the stove, towing Stiles with her, then dips her head into his shoulder. Her free hand digs into his hip, pulling him closer. Stiles carefully slides both arms around her and presses her tiny frame into his chest, feeling her slight weight against him as her heels lift from the ground.

He steels himself, working diligently to remain motionless against her so she knows he is there for her, that he won't let her fall. "I know you do. I know."

"Stiles… Stiles…I…" she struggles for words.

She holds onto him so tightly that he can feel every curve of her body. The closeness makes him lose all concept of time; his mind consumed only with Lydia – drenching himself in her essence, riding out the surge of love that crashes over him, and the helplessness he feels as it drags him deeper under the waves.

He is cast back to shore when Lydia's entire body goes rigid. "Oh, crap…the onions!" She swiftly turns away from him and reaches for the cover of the saucepan with her bare hand. "Ouch!" she hisses, quickly setting the lid aside and withdrawing her hand.

"Is it okay?" Stiles asks, wincing at the thought of her in additional pain.

"Yeah…just barely." She answers, further reducing the heat, then leaning over the pan to stir the now translucent onions with a wooden spoon to ensure that they don't stick.

"I meant your hand."

"Oh…uh…it's fine. Can you hand me the tomatoes?" she deflects, hiding her hand behind her back.

He complies, watching as she pours the contents of the cans over the onions and garlic and gives it another stir before seasoning the sauce with the basil, oregano, salt, pepper, and a pinch of sugar. He notices that she doesn't measure any of the ingredients. Lydia Martin, the mathematician, the scientist, precision in everything she does, Lydia Martin does not measure when she cooks – she estimates, she leads with instinct, she feels. And for some reason, it doesn't surprise Stiles at all. Lydia doesn't fit inside the neat, predictable little box that everyone else would force her into…and she never has. He knows that, he has always known that, and this is just another reminder.

Before, there was the façade of a popular girl; beautiful, but actively working to disguise the depths of her intelligence. Now, there is the outed genius; on the fast track to winning a Field's Medal, masking her fears and insecurities with a shield of resolute confidence. But Lydia is so much more than either of those images would suggest. She is whatever she wants to be, at any time and any place. She can do anything. She is strong and soft, smart and beautiful, analytical and artistic, light and dark, calm and wild. _Lydia is everything he has ever dreamed she is…and more._

Stiles breaks from his runaway train of thought, realizing he has been mindlessly rubbing Lydia's back the entire time. She replaces the lid on the saucepan, lights the burner under the pot of water, and sets the timer on the stove for fifteen minutes.

"Can I see your hand now?" he asks, taking her wrist without waiting for an answer. "Hmm…it doesn't look too bad. How does it _really_ feel?" he asks, examining the bright pink splotches on the tips of her index and middle fingers while stroking her palm with his thumb.

She turns towards him but stares down at her hand. "Stiles…it hurts," she admits in a low voice, and he knows she means more than the burn.

"I know," he tells her with certainty. He does know…because Lydia's pain hurts him too. He tucks a ribbon of hair that has come loose from her ponytail behind her ear. "I think I can help with that…I mean…the burn anyway. How about we put some ice on it?"

She nods.

He moves his hands to her waist and eases her back a few paces. Her eyes widen but she puts her palms on his shoulders as though she knows what he is about to do. "Up you go," he says, hoisting her up onto the counter with minimal effort.

Keeping his left hand on her hip, Stiles stretches to the right, opens the freezer door, and grabs a single cube of ice, knocking the door shut with his elbow. He leans against Lydia's knees and she parts for him, so he shifts closer. Focusing his eyes on her hand, he lets go of her hip and gently runs the ice over the pads of her fingers. After counting to ten, he removes it and brings her hand in front of his lips, gently blowing on the sensitive moistened skin.

When he notices that her legs occasionally quake against him, he is concerned. "Am I hurting you?"

She lets out a small sigh, her warmth gusting over his nose. "No, I'm okay."

He wants to believe her, but something inside tells him that no matter what he does, he will always end up hurting her and he hates himself for it. He repeats the process, icing her skin, then gently warming it back up with his breath, until the cube is nearly melted. Then he pops the remaining segment into his mouth and lets it dissolve on his tongue…along with the words he so desperately wants to say to her. _I love you. Lydia, I love you…so much._

Her other hand is still on his shoulder, but he only becomes conscious of it when she begins drawing soothing circles against him with her thumb. He knows she wants him to look at her. When he finally gathers the nerve to do so, her cheeks are flushed, left brow raised, eyes shining. Stiles thinks there is no way she will ever look more beautiful than she does right now but somehow, he knows that tomorrow she inevitably will. She gets more beautiful every single day…every time she smiles at him, or explains something to him, or opens up to him, or comforts him.

 _She is so close._ He struggles to get control of his voice, so he can speak to her, rather than submit to his desire to shamelessly crush his lips against hers.

"So…sugar…" he whispers.

"Huh?" she asks, mouth slightly agape.

"In the sauce, you added sugar…"

"Oh…yeah…right. It cuts the acidity of the tomatoes."

"That's really smart."

Lydia offers him half of a shy smile, glancing down at her fingers while her eyelashes beat as quickly as his heart. "If I was really smart, I would have used a potholder instead of burning my fingers."

Stiles smiles back sympathetically. "How do they feel now?" he asks, bashfully biting his lip.

"Better."

"Good."

They are face to face, his heart rate still increasing to a furious rate, and before he can stop himself, Stiles is kissing Lydia's forehead. She closes her eyes and he can feel her relax against his lips. When he pulls back she returns the gesture, soft lips and light breath tickling their way across the skin above his right eyebrow, two icy fingertips and eight warmer ones gingerly gliding through his hair before she tentatively slides her hands down his chest, securing both of her arms around him tightly.

"Thank you," she breathes into his ear…and he calms.

He draws her near. "You're welcome."

She rests her chin on his shoulder and they silently comfort one another; each holding onto the other like a lifeline, the only sounds – slow simmering on the stove and steady harmonious breaths from within their joined ribs.

When the timer buzzes, cutting their peaceful moment in two, Lydia turns away to shut the burner. This time, she grabs a potholder before she uncovers the saucepan. Stiles gazes as she stirs the sauce one more time before bringing the wooden spoon to her lips to taste it, his mouth watering at the sight of her and the aroma of the sauce.

"I think it's done. Do you want to try it?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Careful…it's really hot," she warns, cupping her hand under the spoon and holding it out to him.

He bends down and cautiously takes some sauce from the spoon, swiping his lips with his tongue afterward to erase leftover traces of the sauce. "Mmm…wow…Lydia…that is delicious."

"Really?" she asks.

"Yeah. It's perfect." _And so are you,_ he thinks.

"I'm glad you like it," she tells him, setting the spoon aside before returning her hands to his shoulders. "Scott will be here any minute. I should go wash up."

"Okay." He takes hold of her waist and helps her down from the counter.

She shivers against him.

"You alright?"

She nibbles her lip and nods. He is worried he has overstepped some invisible boundary between them but is reassured when she takes his hand and squeezes it. "I'll just be a few minutes. Will you make sure the water doesn't boil over? We can wait until Scott gets here to cook the pasta."

"Yeah, no problem."

She holds onto his hand, and he walks her to the doorway, only letting go when she peeks over her shoulder at him with the softest of expressions. He follows her with his eyes as she continues through the living room and disappears into the hallway.

Stiles drops into a chair at the kitchen table with a huff and rests his head on his palms. It's clear to him that he is even more far gone than he thought. _It's Lydia. It has always been Lydia. It will always be Lydia. She is everything._ None of that is new. But the throbbing ache in his chest whenever she is out of his reach is only growing stronger. He just had her in his arms…and still he wants to be holding her – right now.

A different kind of sharpness jabs at his chest as the invasive thought of another girl in his arms suddenly crowds his mind. _How did I let that happen? It was wrong. I should have stopped. How can I dare put my hands anywhere near Lydia now? I should tell her. What if she doesn't understand? What if she hates me for it?_ _She's been with other guys, but that was before she and I were so close. Things are different now._ _What if she finds out from someone else? I should be the one to tell her. Explain it the best I can._ _What if she already knows?_ _She's so smart. What if she figured it out? I should talk to her. But what if she isn't upset at all? What if she doesn't care because she doesn't feel the same way about me?_

 _The Nogitsune is inches from his face, screaming into his ear; gruesome bandages, sharp teeth, foul breath and all. "Let me in, Stiles," it insists. "LET ME IN!"_

He rises from the chair and begins pacing. _Why couldn't I have just stopped? I let myself fall asleep, I let him in, so he wouldn't hurt Malia…someone I barely know…and I hurt all of the people I love instead…Scott…and Allison…Dad…and Lydia…god, Lydia._ The guilt narrows his windpipe; a strong hand gripping his throat and cutting his inhale short. _It's so hot in here._ Leaning against the kitchen sink, he turns on the faucet and splashes his face with cold water, letting it drip down the back of his neck as well. When he looks down at his hands, he sees a splotch of blood. He begins to wash his hands, but the more he scrubs, the more stained they become. He scrubs and scrubs, water running colder and colder against his skin until he has the chills.

"Stiles?"

He jumps at the sound of his name.

"Stiles…what are you doing?" Scott is standing next to him, hand on his shoulder, face stricken with worry.

He looks blankly at his friend, continually lathering and rinsing. "My hands…they're so dirty."

"No, they aren't."

"Yes, they are."

"Stiles…I swear…look." Scott takes hold of both of his wrists, to stop his compulsion. "Look," he repeats.

Breathing heavily, Stiles gathers the nerve to examine his hands another time. "But…I saw…"

"Are you having a panic attack?"

"I don't know. I don't know…maybe," he responds, grasping at Scott for balance, squinting as his vision blurs. His feet stumble to keep up as Scott supports him under the arms and drags him to a chair.

"Alright. It's alright," Scott tells Stiles, kneeling beside him. "Come on, Stiles. Count with me…you can do it…just like before."

"One…two."

"Keep going."

"Three…four."

"Come on…five."

"Six…seven."

"Eight."

"Nine…ten."

"Ten…ten," Scott repeats.

Leaning back in the chair, Stiles sucks in the rest of the breath that has been caught in his throat.

Scott stands and moves towards the sink. He grabs some paper towel and runs it under the faucet, then wrings it out and hands it to Stiles.

Head still buzzing with vertigo, Stiles can feel his best friend staring at him. "Don't worry, I'm fine Scott," he lies, wiping the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand.

"No, you're not. We have to talk about this."

"Not now," he begs, glancing over his shoulder. "Please, don't mention this to Lydia," he whispers. "I don't want her to worry any more than she already has been."

"But she'll want to know."

"Scott, please…don't. _Please_."

"Stiles, you can't—" He stops mid-sentence.

Within seconds, Stiles understands the reason. A flash of strawberry-blonde catches his eye as Lydia enters the kitchen. She shoots a questioning look at Stiles as he tosses the used paper towel in the trash without leaving his seat. He offers her a weak smile, mouthing the words _I'm okay_.

"Hi Lydia," Scott says.

She maintains eye contact with Stiles for an extended pause, looking skeptical, then turns to Scott, diving into his open arms. "Hey, glad you could make it," she says.

Stiles can't help the pang of jealousy that strikes him. He knows that Lydia and Scott are friends, knows they are both experiencing the oppressive pain of Allison's death to its fullest weight, but it hurts to witness the lack of hesitation in her body when she leans into his best friend. He can't help wishing she would do the same with him. He catches glimpses of it, but something always makes her tense, or freeze up, or pull away. It pains him to consider the reason for it.

His ears start ringing and he feels himself spiraling, sinking into the chaos of a roughly churning sea, but as soon as Lydia and Scott part, she comes to stand beside him. Her long hair, that she has released from her ponytail, cascades around her shoulders, grazing along his upper arm. She rests her hand at the nape of his neck, almost lovingly gliding her fingers through the ends of his hair at the base of his skull. Stiles lifts his eyes to Lydia. She is bright like the sun, shining through the dense murky waters. He listens to her voice, kicks for the surface following her glow, and breaches the shallows of chilling despair once more.

He remembers being submerged in ice water and Lydia's voice calling him home – the sweet sound muffled at first, then clearer and clearer, until he awoke, shivering even though he felt warm...warm, and in love, and so relieved to be with her again _. She pulled him back then. She pulled him back now. She always pulls him back._ He takes a deep breath and reaches for her hand, and she doesn't tense, or freeze, or pull away.

* * *

Not long after, the three sit down to dinner; Stiles on Lydia's right side, as usual, and Scott across from them both. They all notice the empty fourth chair, but no one needs to voice their anguish. Allison's absence speaks volumes.

Stiles pours Scott, Lydia, and himself some water, and looks down at the plate-full of pasta that Lydia has put in front of him. He picks up his fork, and it is heavy in his hand. He listens to Lydia and Scott talk about their lab report, tapping his finger on his knee and aching to touch her again. She looks over at him, probably noticing that he is twirling linguine around his fork, never bringing it to his mouth. Within seconds, she slides her hand to his forearm, pulling his hand away from his lap and intertwining her fingers with his. As their hands dangle between their chairs, his heart stammers, then finds its natural rhythm – and just like that, the stress begins to leave his body. He hears the waves pounding in his ears as his love for her crashes over him once more. He is able to enjoy the rest of his dinner, focusing on the scent of her perfume, the kind way she glances over at him, and the sensation of her hand inside of his.

Once they finish their meal, Scott takes Lydia's free hand from across the table. "Thanks for this…both of you," he adds, looking at Stiles. "I'd stay a while longer, but I'm supposed to meet Chris, so we can make a few last arrangements…for Sunday."

Lydia's eyebrows cinch together. "Should we come with you? Is there anything I can do?"

Scott smiles gently at her. "No, Lydia…you've done so much already. Chris hardly goes a few minutes without mentioning what a help you've been. We've got this," he assures her, eyes welling up as he speaks.

She squeezes his hand, looking away. After a few soundless moments, they all get up from the table, Lydia never loosening the grip she has on Stiles's hand.

As they reach the front door, Scott hesitates, "Thanks again…really… It helps to be with you guys." He kisses Lydia on the cheek and hugs Stiles, giving him a look that says: _We are going to talk later_ , then steps over the threshold and walks to his dirt-bike.

Stiles releases Lydia's hand and drapes his arm over her shoulder as she slides both of her arms around his upper body. They both watch Scott from the doorway. He looks back once, before putting on his helmet and straddling the bike. He fires the engine and lets it idle while he illuminates the headlights. Then he rolls out of the driveway, cutting through the dense blanket of fog as he speeds down the street.

Stiles feels Lydia tap her fingers against his ribs. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"What was going on before…with you and Scott?"

He looks at her unsure of how to answer.

"I feel like I walked in on an argument or something."

"Oh…no we weren't arguing. He was just concerned."

"About…" she leads, tilting her head up.

Her eyes are trusting, and it nudges at his heart. He can't tell her everything yet, but he can't lie to her either. "I was feeling kind of fidgety, and it got really hot all of a sudden."

She scrunches up her mouth and lifts a hand to his forehead. "Your head feels cool now. Do you think you're getting sick?"

"No…no…I'm fine."

"You would tell me…if you thought you were… Right?" she implores, sliding her hand to his cheek.

"Of course."

"Okay, good. Well, I guess we should go clean up," she says.

Stiles closes the front door, turning them into the foyer. "Not _we_ …me. You cooked. I'll clean up."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. Anyway…I think someone is missing your attention," he points out, directing his eyes at Prada who is patiently waiting in the hallway outside his bedroom.

Lydia gives him a half-smile, lets her arms drop, and steps towards the hallway, stalling a few feet away.

"It's okay. I'll be there in a bit."

She purses her lips and continues down the hall, vanishing behind the wall that leads to his room.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Stiles is putting the last of the dishes away in the kitchen cabinet. He cleans off the countertop and walks to his room. When he reaches the open doorway, Lydia is staring out of his bedroom window. She has that far-off look in her eyes, the kind that makes him want to rush over and hug her, hoping it will somehow ease her pain.

"Lydia?" He speaks softly, but she startles, reshaping into a frightened wounded soul and jolting back sharply…and he reacts, closing the distance between them in a few long strides, then hunching down to make eye contact with her. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"I know you didn't. I'm just a bit on edge," she answers, eyes glossy with tears, her bottom lip swollen from biting on it.

"Yeah. I get it," he says, circling her wrists with his hands and gliding his thumbs inside the sleeves of her floral tee shirt to caress the smooth skin of her forearms. "Can I do anything?"

"You already are," she admits, voice thick with emotion.

Stiles hears her breath catch in her throat as she steps closer. It sends an uneasy tingle down his spine that passes as soon as Lydia puts her head on his chest. He is aware that she is intently listening to his heartbeat. She does that now. They've gotten so close that she listens to his heart…and he loves it. Not daring to hope that it means what he wishes it could, he tells himself she only wants to make sure he is okay…since he nearly died a few days ago. Still, it means the world – the way she shows concern for him. Stiles knows that his heart must be racing, and that he should probably be embarrassed by the way it responds to her, but right now, he isn't the slightest bit wary of showing Lydia the effect she has on him...because it just feels so unbelievably good to have her so near.

He releases her wrists, wraps one arm around her waist and the other across her shoulders, drawing her into him. She lets out a small moan as the tension fades from her body and she returns the embrace. Stiles gets lost in the experience of it all – in her. Ever so gently, he begins to sway them, gradually leaning his face towards hers until their cheeks make contact. He wants to kiss her _so badly_ , but he can be just as happy with this – their entire bodies connecting, making him more mindful of how head-over-heels in love with her he really is.

She suddenly angles her head upwards and when she speaks, her warm breath drafts across his lips. "Stiles…is there something you wanted to tell me?"

"Huh?" He wonders if she knows that he was thinking about kissing her.

"When you came into the room…you looked like you wanted to say something."

"Oh…uh…yeah…" It's difficult to think. _She is so close_. "I was…just going to bring some dinner to my dad. Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes. Will you be alright for a while?"

"Yeah," she tells him, but the way she tightens her grip on his shirt indicates otherwise.

He nods, not wanting to push. He knows she hates to feel fragile. "Okay." Briefly squeezing her before letting go, he continues, "I'll see you in a bit then." Stiles turns to leave, but Lydia catches the edge of his sleeve.

"Wait. What if… What if I came with you?" she asks with a hint of uncertainty coloring her tone.

Lydia surprises him with a simple question. Emotions bared so raw and openly, through seemingly inconsequential words – words that to Stiles, convey the fear and vulnerability she is so desperately trying to conceal. What he is hearing is that she doesn't want to be alone, and she is admitting it in the only way she is comfortable with at the moment. It's all he needs. Her request lightens his heart, pushing against the darkness that still hovers around it, offering him hope…something he is in desperate search of, now more than ever. Their eyes are locked, and he thinks he can see inside to her soul… _and it is beautiful_.

"Yeah…definitely. You could do that."

"Can I bring Prada?" she pleads sweetly, almost child-like.

He smiles a fond, lopsided smile at her. "Sure. Let me warm up the Jeep, and then we'll go."

"You don't have to."

"I know, but I don't want you to be cold." He swiftly kisses her head and moves to the doorway. "I'll be right back."

"Stiles?"

"Yeah, Lyds?" he replies, turning to face her.

She wraps her arms around her mid-section as though trying to hold something in. "I… I just… Thanks."

He thinks she wants to say something more, but he is more than willing to wait until she is ready – he would wait forever for her. He suddenly feels braver…and words fall from his mouth without a second thought, "I'd do anything for you." He has no regret for saying it. It feels right and natural to admit. Most importantly, it is the truth.

She puts her head down, brilliant green eyes flaring up like fireworks under long curled lashes. He knows she needs a minute, so he turns to leave, imagining her gorgeous smile, with her perfect lips and her signature dimples. His heart is so incredibly full…so far from the desperation he felt just a few hours before.

* * *

When Stiles reenters the house, Lydia is stepping into the foyer with Prada. "Ready?" he asks.

"Yeah," she replies, standing close and watching him carefully.

Normally, he would be self-conscious under these circumstances, but instead, he is calm. Lydia is gazing up at him. She seems to be searching for the answer to a question and he hopes he has it.

"Everything okay?" he asks, touching her cheek.

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods. "I think so." When she opens her eyes, the question mark is gone from her expression. She leans into his touch, cupping her palm over the back of his hand for a second before letting go with the slightest trace of a smile shaping her lips.

Stiles helps Lydia into her cardigan, lifting her hair out from beneath the collar and spreading it around her shoulders as she adjusts her sleeves. She wets her lips and whispers a thank you, then picks Prada up and carries her companion to the Jeep while Stiles locks up the house. When he steps off the porch, Lydia is already sitting in the passenger's seat. He pauses for a few seconds; the sight of her through the dew-covered window making his heart surge. She looks like she belongs there…and she does.

The evening is dark, with pale cast moonlight emitting from behind breaks in the cover of clouds. As they drive to the sheriff's station, rain begins to lightly mist the windshield. They hold hands over the gearshift, the same way they have been all week. Neither of them speaks, and Stiles finds that he is curiously comforted by the silence. There is so much he wants to tell Lydia but somehow, he knows words aren't necessary in this moment. It feels as though they are silently communicating to each other with every breath.

* * *

They arrive at their destination, and Stiles jogs around to the passenger's side to help Lydia, whose arms are preoccupied with her black and white Papillon. The rainfall has accelerated a bit, so Stiles removes his jacket to shield his two girls as they make their way into the building.

Inside, the door to Sheriff Noah Stilinski's office is open. He is standing at his desk, coffee mug in one hand, phone receiver in the other. He bids them into the room with a smile and a wink.

"Okay… Not until next week… Yes… Will do… Yeah… Good-night," Noah says, before hanging up the phone. "Well, this is a nice surprise! To what do I owe this honor?"

"Do I need a _reason_ to bring my dad some dinner?" Stiles answers, shaking out droplets of rain from his hair with his palm.

"You do if it is some kind of bland salad or that quinoa stuff you keep trying to get me to eat. But actually, I was referring to Lydia…and Prada," he says, coming around the desk to stand in front of them while ignoring the feigned insult that Stiles is displaying.

"It's good to see you," he says, touching Lydia's shoulder.

"You too, Sheriff."

"Lydia, honey," he frowns kindly. "I hope this is the last time I have to remind you... You can call me Noah," he continues in a gentle tone.

She quirks her mouth into a shy smile. "Right… Sorry."

"So…what _did_ you bring me?" he asks Stiles.

"Oh…nothing…just…linguine with marinara sauce."

"Ah…now that's dinner! Did you go to Fratelli's?"

"Nope, Lydia made it…and it's _amazing_ – way better than Fratelli's," he brags.

Stiles notices the blush rising in Lydia's cheeks at the compliment. Her hand quickly slides into his, like it belongs there…and it does. At her touch, he is immediately assaulted by a wave of butterflies and a burst of heat that radiates from the center of his chest.

"You didn't have to do that," Noah tells her.

"I wanted to," she shrugs.

"Well, I can't wait to try it," he says, placing the bag Stiles had handed him onto his desk. "What are you two up to tonight?"

"Art and chemistry for Lydia. English lit…and laundry for me."

"Looks like it's going to be another late one here," he informs them with a deep exhale. "I won't be home until morning. Oh…and I better not find the two of you huddled on the couch when I do," he says sternly.

"Dad…"

"Don't dad me. You both need to sleep – in real beds. Lydia, you can take Stiles's room and Stiles, you can stay in mine."

"But—"

"Stiles…"

He is about to argue further, but Lydia tugs on his hand. He figures she doesn't want his dad to know about her nightmares, so he holds his tongue.

"Stiles…" Noah repeats.

"Yes sir."

"Good. Now, I have to get a few more things in order. We've got a new deputy coming tomorrow. I'll see you in the morning. I'll be home before you leave for school."

Lydia sets Prada down, steps up to Noah, hugs him, and gives him a light kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for letting me stay over, Noah."

He hugs her back. "I wouldn't have it any other way. You are always welcome with us…and you don't have to thank me. You are family."

Lydia's eyes well up almost immediately, so Stiles tightens his grip on her hand. She turns into him, leaning her head on his upper arm. He gives his dad a quick hug, keeping hold of Lydia as they prepare to leave.

"Thanks again for coming by…and for dinner," Noah says. "Drive safely."

The rain has continued to pick up strength by the time they step outside of the station. It pummels buckets of precipitation at them, rolling across the fog covered ground, and splashing around their ankles. Although Stiles covers Lydia and Prada with his jacket, they all get fairly drenched in the time it takes to run the short distance to the Jeep. He helps Lydia in and races around to the driver's side.

"Sorry about that…I guess I should have brought an umbrella," he apologizes, drying his hands on his pants.

"I didn't think of it either," she tells him, turning her attention to her dog. "Oh…Prada, my poor baby…" she whimpers.

Stiles shifts his eyes to the pup, who looks anything but pleased about her current condition. Even having been carried by Lydia, she is drenched. As he reaches to crank the heat up, Stiles notices Lydia's body beginning to shake. He returns his focus to her face, expecting to find that she is crying, yet she isn't. In fact, a brilliant smile has spread across her lips. Not just any smile – a genuine Lydia Martin smile, dimples and all. It's the first he has seen in a long time and it makes him smile too.

"Stiles! Just look at her! This is what I see every time I give her a bath. She looks like a little wet rat!"

"Oh my god! You're right!" he agrees.

She begins to laugh wholeheartedly, and Stiles loses focus on the world around him. All he can see is Lydia…and she is a goddess…in fact, she is better than a goddess because _she is_ _real_ – flesh and blood, and stunningly beautiful – even when she is soaked through from a sudden torrential downpour. Her strawberry-blonde shade has deepened to cinnamon, her skin is sparkling with a mixture of tears and raindrops, and her sweater clings to her shoulders and chest, outlining every curve. She is breathtaking.

"I'm soaked too. I must look just as awful as she does!" she giggles.

Without a second thought, Stiles leans across the front seat, shaking his head and cupping Lydia's face in both hands. "Well, I think you look beautiful."

She keeps grinning, her eyes locked on his, her sweet scent mixed with the fragrance of the first spring rain…calling him closer. Their faces mere inches apart, he can almost taste her. He wants to kiss her, but it feels wrong – like he would be taking advantage of the first glimmer of reprieve she has experienced in days…if not weeks. He can't do that to her. So, he just holds her face drinking her in, thumbs gliding across her moistened cheekbones, as they share the same space; uneven breaths inhaled and exhaled in unison.

But then she changes again…with just a shift of her eyebrows. "What are we doing?" she whispers.

The panicked sound of her voice snaps Stiles from the heady daze that has overtaken his mind. "Huh?"

Her smile is fading. Guilt and anguish alter her voice as it cracks over her next words. "Should we be laughing? Should we be laughing...when Allison…" Her face crumples. "It wasn't even that funny. Stiles…what's wrong with me? What kind of friend am I? I'm…I'm such an awful person!"

"No. Lydia…no, you aren't."

"Then tell me…how can I be laughing when she's—"

"Shh…I know it feels that way, but it's not wrong. I promise you." He is still cradling her face in his hands, but she has averted her gaze. "Lydia, look at me." When her eyes meet his, Stiles can see her searching again…looking for the answers in him. He continues, "It's alright to laugh. It doesn't mean you are forgetting her. It just means you still feel…that you are still… _alive_ …and I'm so damn grateful for that. What would I have…"

Expression filled with awe, she lifts her hand, scattering raindrops as she smooths his hair and passes her palm across his cheek to swipe away the dampness. After a long pause, she rests her head on his shoulder, settling her face in the crook of his neck, finding his left hand with her right, and bringing it around to her waist.

"How'd you do that?" she breathes.

"Do what?"

"How do you know just what to say to me?"

"I dunno. I just say what I think, what I know from experience...what I believe to be true."

They remain in their embrace for a while, Prada sandwiched in between them, holding on to each other through slippery skin that has been saturated with rain and tears. Heat blares through the vents, warming them from the outside while unspoken love chases away the chill in their bones from within.

When Lydia speaks, her voice is quiet, her nose nudging the pulse in his throat. "Stiles?"

"Mmm…"

"Can we go home now?"

Home. One syllable that never sounded more perfect. She called his and his dad's house – _home_. He closes his eyes and kisses her temple. "Yeah. Let's go home, Lydia."

* * *

A few hours later, Lydia, Prada, and Stiles are warm and dry in the safety of the Stilinski home. Stiles is at his desk twirling a pencil in his right hand. He looks up from the book he is reading to glance at Lydia. She has changed into grey leggings and a plum-colored cropped tee with long sleeves. She sits cross-legged in the middle of his bed with Prada curled up next to her. He watches in awe as Lydia adeptly shapes her hair into a perfect side-braid, her eyes darting from left to right as she simultaneously reads the art history textbook that is propped in her lap. The room is quiet and peaceful, and Stiles is vividly mindful of the fact that he would gladly spend every night like this, if it meant being with Lydia. Setting down his pencil and book, he checks the time on his laptop. It's just before midnight.

"It's getting late. We should probably call it quits," he says, rubbing his jaw and yawning.

"Yeah, I guess so," she answers, keeping her eyes focused on the text in her lap.

Stiles hesitantly gets up from his chair and walks over to the bed. "Do you have enough pillows?"

"Yes, these are good," she replies, verdant orbs blinking as she lifts her head to acknowledge him.

"Do you want anything else…extra blankets…or something to drink?" The last thing he wants to do right now is to step outside of his room and close the door behind him, to sleep somewhere other than where Lydia is, but he can't think of any other excuse to delay the inevitable.

"No. Everything is fine."

Stiles isn't convinced. Lydia's expression tells him that she is uneasy, her brows are pinched and though he is sure she isn't aware of it, her mouth is shaped into a subtle frown. He thinks maybe she wants him to stay, but he wishes she would say it. As it is, he knows he walks a fine line between helping her and making her feel helpless, and he doesn't want to push too much because he doesn't want her to shut down on him.

"Okay," he says.

He stands in place as she sets aside her textbook and moves to kneel at the edge of the bed, where he is standing. When she is this close, Stiles can't help but reach out to her. It feels natural and right…and so much less daunting than it used to be.

He lightly jostles her braid in his hand. "If you need anything, I'm just down the hall."

She nods and purses her lips, and that familiar tugging in his chest encourages him still closer. He connects his hand to the nape of her neck, feeling her warm smooth skin and tiny bones underneath the pads of his fingers. After a brief hesitation, he leans down and kisses her forehead. She reaches for him too; her left hand ever so lightly pressed to his shoulder and her right grazing against his forearm. Stiles lets his lips linger and when he finally finds the ability to pull back, Lydia's eyes are closed. She keeps them that way until he speaks to her.

"I'll wake you at around seven. Okay?"

"O-okay," her voice quivers.

"G'night Lydia."

"Night Stiles."

As he backs away and turns to leave, Stiles is conflicted. Part of him has the distinct feeling that he is making a mistake, that maybe she needs him as much as he needs her. A louder voice reminds him that Lydia is strong and more than capable of taking care of herself. It tells him that if she wanted him to stay, she would just say so. He feels foolish for thinking that he could ever become for her, what she is to him – his salvation, a light in the darkness, the person he wants to give his heart to.

When he gets to the door, he checks her expression one more time. She quirks the side of her mouth while massaging Prada's back with her right hand. He thinks maybe Lydia will be just fine without him.

Stiles goes to his father's room and flicks on the light. He turns down the bed and sits at the foot of it, paddling between worrying about Lydia and being insulted that she didn't ask him to stay. He gets up from the bed and begins to pace the room. Letting out a huff, he shakes his head, switches off the overhead light, and sits down again. He feels too warm, so he peels off his navy-blue tee shirt and tosses it aside. Irritated, he runs his hands through his hair and flops down on the mattress, leaving his legs hanging over the side. He tries to sleep but he is too anxious. There is an aching in his chest that is getting sharper by the minute. He presses his palm to it, rubbing the heel of his hand back and forth over his sternum in a vain attempt to ease the pain.

* * *

 **Forty Minutes Later:** March 22

Stiles is wide awake, tapping his fingers on his leg, when he hears the sound of a door opening, and footsteps in the hallway. His heart skips a few beats as light peers in from under the door, immediately followed by a soft knock on the grain. He pops up from the bed, strides over to the door, and pulls it open without a moment's hesitation.

Sure enough, Lydia is standing on the other side of the doorway with her arms protectively wrapped around herself, as she nervously shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She is looking up at him with wide frightened eyes, and her full bottom lip tucked into her mouth.

Stiles hunches down to meet her gaze and takes hold of her shoulders. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"Did I wake you?" she asks, over chattering teeth.

"No. I can't sleep."

"Me neither," she responds, shaking her head. "Stiles, I'm… I'm…too scared."

She is rigid under his hands but sinks into his embrace when he slides his arms around her shoulders.

"I'm sorry. I hate being like this. It's so weak and—"

He strengthens his grip on her, angling his head towards her ear. "Don't you do that. Lydia, asking for help is not weak – it's about the bravest thing you can do…and I _want_ to help you. Tell me how I can."

"Will you stay with me?" Breathy and reverent, the request passes her lips like a secret or a prayer.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll stay with you."

"Are you sure? I don't want to get you in trouble. Your dad was very clear about what he expects from us…and he's been so good to me. I don't want to disrespect him."

Stiles is instantly annoyed at himself for not considering that Lydia didn't ask him to say because of his father's instructions. He could kick himself for not figuring that out earlier…for letting her suffer the length of nearly an hour because of his sensitive ego.

"You let me worry about that. Alright? It will be fine."

"Stiles..."

He pulls back to look at her, and she clutches at his upper arms as though she is losing her balance. "Listen, I know my dad, and he'll understand."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive," he asserts.

When her eyes shift downward and she begins to stare, Stiles is suddenly reminded of the fact that he is only wearing plaid pajama pants. "Uh…sorry about that…let me just put a shirt on."

Before he moves away, she places her fingertips up to the middle of his chest. "It's okay," she says softly as she delicately drags the side of her thumb across his bare skin.

He swallows nervously. Lydia's eyes flicker back to his and he sees something in them that looks like desire. It's fleeting though. When she drops her hand, Stiles assumes he imagined it. He reminds himself that they are friends, that Lydia is simply an affectionate person, and that anything which seems to be more is all in his head. Most insistently, he reminds himself that even if there had been the remote possibility of a romantic relationship between them, he wrecked his chance when he let himself be possessed by the Nogitsune – igniting a chain reaction of events that are the reason Lydia is suffering right now. His eyes sting with tears. He has no idea how much time has passed when she speaks to him, bringing him back to his surroundings.

"Stiles, what is it?" she asks tenderly, putting her hand to his cheek and dotting at the corner of his eye with her index finger.

Just like that, his heart races with the intense awareness that she is still with him – even after everything he has done. Her face and body language convey concern, but there is also a soft and open quality about her that makes Stiles want to confess his love to her. He is convinced that now is not the right time, so he tries to tell Lydia what she means to him in a different way.

"I…nothing. I…was just thinking about how glad I am that you're here."

She smiles delicately at him, faint hint of a dimple popping through on her right cheek. "So am I."

Three words. _So am I_. Those three little words, paired with her perfect smile, unlock the door to hope – hope that someday she can forgive him, and that someday they can be happy _together_.

He actively works to steady himself as she gradually slides her hand away from his cheek. Letting go of her with a fair amount of reluctance, he finds his shirt and pulls it over his head. Then he takes Lydia's hand and they walk to his room, where Stiles crawls into bed, holding his arms out to her. She climbs in directly after, lying on her right side to face him. He pulls the covers over them both, being careful not to disturb Prada, who is sleeping at the foot of the bed.

"Is this okay?" he asks. "Are you comfortable?"

"I'm fine. Are you okay?"

"Yeah…yup…good."

"You're sure?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Definitely," he assures her with a half-smirk, calming enough to pull her close to him. "Oh crap…I forgot the light…" he remarks.

"I'll get it…" she says.

They both extend their arms towards the lamp; Lydia rolling to the left and Stiles along with her. He freezes, every muscle in his body contracting when he realizes that he is hovering over her. _She is so beautiful_. Her eyes are sparkling in the lamplight, her freckles are bare, and her breath is light and warm on his face. He knows it isn't right, but he wants to kiss her so badly that the ache in his chest intensifies. In the slightest of movements, it seems like she is lifting her head towards him, but then he sees that nagging indication of fear in her eyes and she stops.

"Uh…sorry. Guess I didn't think that through," he apologizes.

"It's okay. I can't reach it anyway," she replies, smoothing her hand along the side of his ribs.

He quickly shuts the light and rolls off of her before his body stars to react in a way that is less than platonic.

In the dark, he can no longer see Lydia's face and it troubles him. He senses her presence, hears her breathing, feels her movements as she adjusts her position closer to him, but he only unwinds when her hand finds his under the covers.

Not long after, they both find sleep, tucked into the comfort of each other's company.

* * *

At 3:06 a.m. Stiles wakes in pitch darkness to the sound of Lydia's cries and the feeling of her hands gripping the front of his shirt. She gasps for air, his name peeling from the back of her throat.

"Stiles! Stiles!"

"Okay, Lydia. Okay." He slips his left arm under her, firmly pressing his palm to the middle of her back. Traces of moisture have begun to soak through her top as her body violently tremors against him. "Hey, it's gonna be alright," he says, moving his opposite hand to the back of her head to smooth her hair.

She abruptly releases his shirt and Stiles worries that she is about to push him away, but instead, she covers his face with her hands. It surprises him at first, but as soon as he realizes what she is trying to do, his heart melts.

It is still far too dark to see, so Lydia is using her hands to distinguish his features. She deliberately passes her fingertips over his forehead and eyebrows, explores his lashes and the shape of his eyes, drags her thumbs over his nose and across his cheekbones, then continues sliding her hands down his jawline, allowing the pads of her fingers to trace along his moles and the outline of his lips until finally, she stops at his chin.

"Stiles…Stiles…" she sobs through hiccups.

"Yeah, Lydia. It's me. I'm here."

"I was so afraid…" she cries, nuzzling her cheek against his in search of more contact.

He fixes both of his hands to her waist; she is so small that his hands stretch across her entire back and overlap in the middle. Her skin is hot beneath his fingers where her top has rolled upwards. He lightly massages the tense muscles along the base of her spine, hoping to help her relax.

"I know…I know, Lyds. But you're safe here. You're safe."

She curls into him, dropping her head to his chest and shifting her body closer so that her knees make contact with his thighs.

"You can tell me. You know that…right?" he tells her.

After a few staggered breaths, she responds. "It was happening again," her voice straining to form a whisper.

"What was?"

"That night... I was remembering everything that happened…to Allison…and everything that happened to me…when he…when he had me…but it was more intense than a memory…like a flashback. It felt like it was happening again. It was so c-cold, and dark…and…Stiles…he kept…he—he kept…touching me. He kept touching me with his cold hands. They were like ice…and…I was cornered…and he was pressed up against me…and I just…I just wanted it to stop. If you hadn't come for me… I don't know…I don't know," she inhales sharply, "and when I sleep…it all comes back, and it feels worse."

The extent of the trauma she experienced cuts deep into his core with every word she chokes out. It makes Stiles sick to think of Lydia going through something so terrible; unwanted hands on her body. His guilt expands with a weight so crushing that it hinders his lungs. He blinks back his own tears as hers dampen his shirt, warmth pooling outwards from each droplet.

"Is this what you see every night?" He wants to turn on the light, see her expression when she answers, but he knows it is easier for her to speak the awful truth under the cover of night. He pictures her pretty face with flushed cheeks, tears welling up in her emerald eyes, and her lips trembling. The image pierces his heart.

"The part about Allison has been every night, but this is the first time…the rest of it."

He has the unrelenting desire to apologize to her for the way she is suffering…to beg for her forgiveness, but he knows this moment is not about him, it's about trying to ease her pain if he can, not his own. "Lydia, what can I do? Tell me... I'll do anything."

"Just…please hold me and…don't let go," she sniffles, relocating her head to the crook of his neck and dragging the lower half of her body into his by hooking her leg over his thigh.

"Okay. I've got you."

Her ragged breaths are warm against his neck. Intense heat radiates from her entire body, but still she shivers uncontrollably. The pressure on his heart is immense – weakened muscle squeezed past the point of recognition as she continues to sob. Her pain is transmitted to him through wounded flesh and bone, permeating through the thin fabric of their clothing, soaking into his soul.

Stiles continues to massage her back, bowing his head to whisper in her ear. "I've got you, Lyds. Just breathe. Breathe with me… Okay? Nice and slow." He feels her ribs expanding along with his as their breaths and beats begin to sync. "That's it. Just keep focusing on breathing…in…and out… Shh…in…and out."

It takes a considerable amount of time, but she quiets; entire body easing of its tension, tears cease, shaking subsides. He touches her face as gently as possible, placing his fingertips on her jaw and caressing the smooth skin under her eyes with his thumb. "Do you feel any better?"

He can sense how tired she is from the listless way she nods in response.

"Do you want to try to sleep?"

"Not really." Her voice is hoarse and strained from crying.

"It's okay. Nothing is going to happen to you. You're safe here." He runs his fingers along her braid, concentrating on its silk-like texture.

She wraps her fingers around his hand, manipulating his thumb and index fingers around the elastic band that secures her long plait of hair. "You can undo it."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. It's probably coming loose anyway."

He carefully removes the band from her braid, slips it onto her wrist, and begins combing his fingers through the ends of her hair to loosen the strands.

"Stiles…will you talk to me for a while?"

"Sure. What do you want to talk about?" he says, slowly continuing to work upwards through her locks until the braid is completely undone.

"Anything. It doesn't matter. I… I just want to hear your voice."

The words bud from her mouth and plant themselves deep into a sheltered chamber of his heart, taking up roots in the place that holds out hope, the place that longs for the barely explored possibility of _them_ – Lydia and Stiles, _together._ He hopes she means that she trusts him, that he comforts her, and he wonders if it could mean more…that he could mean more. It seems like too much to wish for, but anything seems possible when Lydia is being so open and unguarded with him.

"Stiles?"

"Oh right…sorry…uh… The Mets look good this year," he begins. Right away, he regrets his choice of topic, but when Lydia responds with a spark of interest in her voice, he thinks perhaps it wasn't such a poor one.

"Do they?"

"Yeah. Spring training is going well. They're fourteen and nine."

"When does the regular season start?"

"In just a few more days, on the first." He brings a handful of her hair to his face, drawing in a long slow breath and letting her scent wash over him.

"Are they going to be home or away?"

"Home."

"That's good. Who are they playing?

"The Padres…I think. Hang on a minute... Lydia Martin…are you getting interested in baseball? In the _Mets_ no less? A team that _dares to wear orange and blue_?" he teases.

Her forehead is leaning against his chin and he can feel her eyebrows arch. "Maybe… I could be. Sometimes…things you wouldn't think would be a good combination…end up turning out to be a perfect combination," she continues as she traces her own tear stains on the front of his shirt.

Stiles feels his heart skip beats. Lydia paid attention, she listened to him, and what he said made enough of an impression, that she remembered it after all this time – and it was meaningful enough for her to say it back to him. Her tone makes him feel like she is saying something… _more_. He is buzzing with that feeling again – that tugging underneath his ribs that draws him towards her with a heart so full he thinks his body can't contain it, _and it is all because of Lydia_. She sparks something inside that makes him feel awake and alive…even at nearly four in the morning with no more than a few hours of broken sleep, and a lingering darkness hanging overhead that she expels with a light as bright as the sun. She is everything, the whole world – right in his arms, and he knows he will never love anyone the way he loves her. His mind starts to wander from memory to memory of her, but the soft sound of Lydia's voice brings him back to the present.

"Stiles?" She reaches up, touching his face to check his expression.

"Oh, sorry…I was just remembering," he replies, catching her fingers in his and kissing each of her palms.

"Me too. It's true though… Isn't it?"

"Yeah, Lyds, it is. It's definitely true."

"Have you ever gone to a game at Citi Field?" she asks, bringing their hands in close to her chest.

He can feel the softness of her breasts against his forearm and her heartbeat against the pulse in his wrist. Her left leg is still draped over his right thigh and he thinks he'd better maintain focused on her question before he loses his mind and any semblance of self-control. Swallowing with a substantial degree of difficulty, he continues, "No…uh…but my dad took me to Shea Stadium once."

"Will you tell me about it?"

He can tell she is getting drowsy by the way her eyelashes tickle his jaw as she blinks repeatedly.

"Sure. I was twelve, and the two of us went to New York for a few days in the summer. We spent most of the time in Manhattan…which was great – seriously crowded, but there's so much to do, and without question…the best pizza – ever…which to a twelve-year-old is pretty much all that matters. Anyway, on the last day, my dad surprised me with tickets to the Mets game. We took the Number 7 train to Queens. We got to the stadium early and watched batting practice. My dad was so relaxed and…it was the happiest I had seen him since my mom…"

He can't help it; his voice breaks. When he stops to clear his throat, Lydia brings their joined hands to her lips, just holding it there for a moment before tenderly kissing his knuckles. It happens so naturally, as though she has done it hundreds of times before, as though she knows she can soothe him without saying a word.

"I…um…we had great seats…third base side. I even caught a foul ball that David Wright hit in the bottom of the fifth. There were a few home runs and a really close play at the plate that went the Mets' way. It was a great game."

"Did they win?"

"Nah, of course not…they blew it in the ninth," he laughs softly, and he can feel her grin against his hand. He pictures her face and it comforts him. "But here's the best part…after the game ended, David Wright signed the baseball I caught."

"The one you keep on top of your bookshelf?"

"Yeah."

"What was he like?"

"You know how people say you should never meet your heroes?"

"Yeah?"

"Definitely not the case with him. He was really nice…talked to me for a while...asked me about little league. He even gave me a few pointers on how to improve my swing. It was one of the best days I can remember."

"Do you think you'll go to another game sometime?"

"Yeah, sure. I'd like to see the new stadium. Maybe…maybe you'll come with me next time. What do you think?"

"I'd like that," Lydia replies, taking a slow deep breath before she speaks his name. "Stiles?"

"Mmm…"

"I'm sorry I kept you awake again," she apologizes through a yawn.

"Don't be…okay? I'm fine and—"

"Stiles…" she sighs as she drifts to sleep.

He waits until he is sure she's okay, sure that she is in deep restful sleep. Then he whispers in a tone so soft that he can barely hear it himself, "I love you Lydia Martin. Always have…always will."

Not long after, Stiles follows Lydia's lead, letting sleep take hold with a heart full of gratitude that she came to him when she needed someone to help her.

* * *

Stiles opens his eyes with a start. It can't be more than two hours since he dozed off the last time. Soft light from a still overcast sky is beginning to filter into his bedroom. He yawns and lifts a hand to wipe the sleep from his eyes. The first image he focuses on is the most beautiful sight in the world – Lydia. _Lydia is in his bed._ Lydia, lit by the shadowy blue haze of early morning light…and it couldn't feel more right, but it seems too good to be true.

He counts his fingers and releases a relieved breath. He isn't dreaming. With little more than a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, he should be exhausted and irritable, but he is far from it because _Lydia is in his bed – right next to him_ …and she is fast asleep with her head on his pillow and her delicate hand inside of his. _Could there possibly be any better way to wake up?_ He is sure there isn't. She moans in her sleep and shifts towards him, so he gingerly drapes his arm over her waist, being very careful not to wake her, and closes his eyes. He isn't ready to get out of bed, isn't ready to let go of her. The thought of waking her is unbearable. She is so peaceful right now – nothing like a few hours ago.

A series of memories, born in pitch darkness, race through his mind. He remembers how Lydia jolted awake from an intense flashback. He remembers the sharpness that cut across his chest as he heard the fear and vulnerability in her voice. He remembers her clinging to the front of his shirt as she cried telling him how scared she was. He remembers feeling helpless; struggling to fight his own tears as he held her trembling form, while despondently trying to ease her pain with words that pale in comparison to what he really wants to tell her. It was a while before she calmed, but he distinctly recalls the sound of his name escaping her lips as she sighed and finally drifted to sleep. That sound, paired with the sensation of Lydia's body relaxing against him and leaning into him for support, drenched his heart in warmth. He remembers being so consumed with love for her that he could not move – just like now. He remembers fighting sleep, listening to her breathe until his eyes burned with exhaustion and he could no longer ignore the urge to close them.

After a few minutes, Stiles begrudgingly opens his eyes to glance at his alarm clock. The numbers are covered by a bright yellow Post-It note scrawled with the words: _Kitchen – now._ He scrunches up his face; not quite prepared to face the uncomfortable conversation he is going to have with his dad. He guesses he had better get it over with though. He starts to let go of Lydia's hand and she stirs, gripping him tighter.

"Stiles?"

His name sounds different when she whispers it while lying next to him – soft and lyrical, carrying a distinct note that rings with a shining glint of possibility.

"Yeah."

"Are you getting up already? What time is it?"

"Uh…I'm not sure…one sec…" he answers as he leans over her to snatch the note from the alarm clock. "It's a quarter past six. You should try to sleep a while longer." Climbing out from the covers, he then tucks her back in and drops a light kiss on her head. "I'll wake you in a bit."

"Okay, thanks," she replies with a faint yawn.

He crawls to the foot of the bed and walks over to the closet to get his grey jeans, a royal blue hooded pull-over, and a white tee shirt. Then he grabs a fresh pair of socks and grey boxer-briefs from his dresser before heading down the hall to the bathroom. He flips on the light, deposits his clothes on the counter next to the sink, and takes a look in the mirror, noting the paleness of his skin and the red rims around his eyes. He splashes some cold water on his face, pats it dry, and braces himself for the inevitable.

* * *

On the way to the kitchen, Stiles passes Prada who has relocated to the living room to sleep under the coffee table. Her tiny paws are twitching sporadically, and her tail is tapping lightly against the carpet. He hopes she is having a good dream. Making an effort not to wake her, he quietly walks past the pup, then he takes a deep breath and cautiously steps through the doorway.

"Morning Dad," Stiles begins in a low voice.

Noah is closing the refrigerator door with his foot. He turns at the sound of his son's voice, holding a half-gallon of orange juice in one hand and a carton of eggs in the other. "Ah…just the person I want to see. Juice?"

"Nah," he replies waving a hand.

"Feel okay?"

Stiles anxiously raps his fingers on the back of the chair that is closest to him, trying not to let the unsettlingly calm tenor of his father's voice unravel him. "Uh…yeah…sure."

Noah pours himself some juice, takes a sip, and carefully sets the glass down on the counter. "Good. Now, sit," he proceeds, moving to stand at the table across from his son.

"Dad—"

"I said sit," he interrupts firmly.

Stiles gruffly pulls out a chair and slumps into the seat. "Dad…could I—"

"Nope. I get to speak first because I _think_ I was explicitly clear when I told you _where_ I expected you to sleep. In fact, I distinctly recall hearing you respond 'Yes sir' when I told you to sleep in my room. Is that correct?"

"I was going to…"

"Yes or no, Stiles."

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Yes, but—"

Noah counters the move by placing his palms against the table and leaning forward. "But _somehow_ I came home this morning to find that you ended up in _your_ bed _with_ Lydia."

"Dad, it's not like we locked the door or anything."

His father's voice elevates as he responds. "Hardly the point."

"We barely got any sleep anyway."

"That is _NOT_ helping your case, kid!" he grits out in an aggravated whisper.

Stiles rolls his eyes out of frustration. "That's not what I— What is this…an interrogation?" he questions, sarcasm infiltrating his words.

" _Stiles_ … _watch it_ …and explain to me why you deliberately disobeyed me."

He looks down at his hands. "It wasn't like that. Alright? Lydia asked me to stay with her. She's been having nightmares…only they're more intense than nightmares…like flashbacks…and they're getting worse. She has barely slept all week. She wakes up terrified and crying…and…I can't just leave her alone like that. We'd have stayed on the couch…but _someone_ insisted that we sleep in a bed."

" _Beds_ …smart-ass…I said _beds_. Plural."

Stiles leans back, roughly running his fingers through his hair before dropping his hands into his lap and shrugging his shoulders. "If you don't want us to stay here together, that's fine – we'll _both_ go to her house tonight."

"Don't take that tone with me," Noah reminds him with a stare. He remains quiet for an extended moment, before letting out an extended sigh. "Look, the invitation for Lydia to stay here is still in place…but there are rules in this house and lines you better not be crossing. As far as I'm aware, the two of you are not _officially_ in a committed relationship."

Stiles narrows his eyes, twists his jaw, and lowers his voice further, "I'm aware of that... _painfully so_ …and I'm not taking anything for granted here." Letting out a short breath, he puts his head down and pokes at the inside of his cheek with his tongue. "I just... I just want to help her. Lydia's not herself right now – she's scared and heartbroken. I would never take advantage of her like that. Dad, she's important to me. I…I love her."

Noah pulls out a chair and sits across from his son. "I know you do."

Stiles shoots him a mildly surprised look.

"Of course, I know…but you've both been through a seriously traumatic ordeal and sometimes…when emotions are heightened to this level, you do things that might not be best for the both of you. So, just _go easy,_ and don't make any big decisions right now – that's all I'm trying to say. Understood?"

"Yeah, understood," he replies, hesitantly making eye contact with his father. "So, how deep am I in it with you?"

"Not very. Could have done with _a lot_ less sarcasm though."

"Sorry, Dad."

"It's alright. Stiles, you've got a good heart – just like your mom. I can't fault you for that…and I know how it is…when you feel that way about a girl. I was no better with your mother…one look and it was all over," he says, looking down with a wistful expression. "Just…take care of each other. Alright?"

Stiles nods as his father stands and moves towards him.

"Now get over here," he says, pulling Stiles in for a hug. "Okay…we've got that talk out of the way. How do pancakes sound?"

Stiles softens, feeling grateful that his father is as understanding as he promised Lydia he would be. "Sounds great. I'm starving."

"Well then, get your butt ready for school," he says, ruffling his son's hair. "They'll be ready in twenty."

Stiles ducks away with a grin, and quickly departs from the kitchen. Seconds later, he pops his head back into the room. "Hey Dad?"

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"Can you make 'em blueberry? Lydia likes blueberry."

"You got it," he chuckles, shaking his head.

* * *

After Stiles showers and dresses, he returns to his bedroom to wake Lydia. He cracks open the door and slides into the room, quietly closing the door behind him. The space is still dimly lit, but he can clearly see Lydia's sleeping form. She is lying on her stomach with the left side of her face smashed into his pillow, her right arm angled towards her cheek, and her hand shading her eyes. Stiles is drawn directly to her, unaware of how his legs are even moving, driven purely by the need to be close to her.

He walks over to the bed and sits beside her, gently covering her hand with his. "Lydia… Lydia." When she doesn't respond he begins to rub her back with his left hand. "Lyds."

"Mmm…" she moans through parted lips.

"It's time to get up."

Keeping her eyes closed, she slightly lifts her head to rest her cheek on his hand, breathing his name across his skin. "Stiles." There is not a trace of panic in her voice. Unlike a few hours ago, she now seems sure that he is with her. "That feels good."

"Yeah?" he asks, thankful that she can't see him because he can only imagine the goofy awestruck expression that must be splashed across his face.

"Uh-huh…"

Delighted by the fact that his own crooked fingers and calloused palms can actually make Lydia feel good, he continues. He massages her back in smooth circles, up and down her spine and into her shoulder blades, relishing in the way she leans into him and how she relaxes under his palms.

Eventually, she opens her eyes as a sigh wafts across her lips. "Hi." She says with a touch of smile, her eyes flashing to deep forest green right in front of him.

"Hi. Sleep okay?"

"Yeah, for a while." She rolls onto her back, and Stiles lets his hand fall away as she sits up to stretch.

 _She even moves beautifully._ At least once a day, Lydia does or says something that makes Stiles think he can't possibly love her more, and the following day she proves him wrong. This is one of those instances. He reluctantly stands, relieved when she follows and moves closer.

She raises her gaze to meet his, her expression decidedly guilt-ridden. "I'm sorry I woke you."

He runs his hand across her forehead and down her cheek, muddled by the way she shivers at the contact. "You don't have to apologize for that. I don't mind."

"But…you need to rest more. I don't want you to get sick."

"I won't. I'm good, I swear," he tells her, weaving their fingers together.

She inches closer. "Where's Prada?"

"In the living room…in her favorite spot."

"Is your dad home?" Lydia asks with concern.

"Yeah, he's in the kitchen, making breakfast."

"After working all night?"

"Yeah, he does that…a lot."

She looks at the floor. "I got you in trouble…didn't I?"

"What?"

"Didn't he see that you weren't in his room?"

"Yeah, but I explained everything…I mean not _everything_ …but you know…just that you've been having nightmares. I hope that's okay."

"It is. He deserves an explanation." Her bottom lip quivers as she speaks. "Does he…want me to leave?"

Stiles hooks his index finger under Lydia's chin to get her to look at him again. "No, of course not. Everything is cool…I promise."

"Really?" she questions, with a hopeful yet surprised expression.

"Yeah. He understands."

Through tears she smiles. "Must be a Stilinski trait."

He melts as she leans into him and circles his torso with her arms, relief pouring out of every inch of her body as she breathes deeply.

"You smell nice," she tells him.

"Nah…that must be the pancakes."

"Stiles…"

"Just kidding. Thanks. So do you…"

"Oh, I'll bet…especially after the way I was sweating last night."

"You always smell good…like vanilla and flowers."

She squeezes him tighter. "Stiles?"

He thinks the sound of his name on her lips is as sweet as her scent. "Yeah, Lydia."

She rests her chin on his chest and glances up at him through her eyelashes…and he sees it – Love. _She looks like she loves him_. He wonders if it's real or a dream? He considers counting his fingers but decides against it. He'd rather have the illusion a while longer…just in case.

"Thank you," she whispers, as though it's just between them; their secret, special and unblemished.

"For what?"

" _Everything_ …I—"

He can see and hear the emotion in her. He doesn't want her to struggle for his benefit, to thank him when he can never erase how deeply he hurt her. "Hey…you don't have to—"

"I want to." She fists the back of his sweatshirt, using the resistance provided by the fabric to help her rise to her tiptoes so she can kiss his cheek…and she lingers…and he is so smitten, he can't breathe.

"You're welcome," he manages to say with unexpected strength in his voice.

He slides his hands to her waist to balance her, or maybe himself, he is not sure which. When she breaks from the kiss, he brings his forehead down to meet hers, and they still. His heart is thumping wildly but Lydia's presence helps him breathe – slow, and deep, and in control, and so in love with her. In a matter of seconds, she takes is breath away…and then she gives it back.

Lydia is the first to break the silence. "Stiles, before…did you say pancakes?"

"I did," he confirms, raising his eyebrows. "You hungry?"

"Yeah."

He nods towards the doorway. "Come on then." Taking Lydia's hand, he leads her down the hall, and even though he is only half-smiling on the outside, on the inside, he is grinning from ear to ear.

* * *

"There you both are! Thought I was going to have to eat alone," Noah greets them when they enter the kitchen. He walks over to Lydia and kisses her head. "Hi, kiddo. How are you feeling?"

"A little tired, but okay," she answers timidly.

Noah asks, "What will you have Lydia? Juice or coffee or both?"

Stiles can sense her astonishment. He is sure she was imagining a far less welcoming reception. She looks his way with wide-eyes and pursed lips. He gives her a wink and mouths the words _it's okay_ before they answer _together_ …

"Just coffee."

"Well…have a seat then. It's coming right up."

Stiles pulls a chair out for Lydia and waits for her to sit. Shifting to her right, he takes his place beside her as his dad brings a plate stacked high with hot pancakes and sets it between them. He gets a twinge in his chest when he observes how overwhelmed she looks...like she's never had anyone serve her breakfast before. He wonders if maybe she hasn't, and it makes him ache for her. She blinks repeatedly, most likely fighting tears. With his father's back turned, Stiles takes the opportunity to brush Lydia's hair behind her shoulder, then he grazes the back of his index finger along her cheek. She leans into the contact, another secret exchange between them. It's ephemeral but powerful. They separate at the same time, when Noah turns to take a seat at the table with them.

Throughout breakfast, Stiles can't tear his eyes away from Lydia. He watches as she lifts a short stack from the plate and places it in front of him before taking the next two pancakes for herself. Something as simple as how she fixes her coffee mesmerizes him. He watches how gracefully her hands move as she takes a scant teaspoon of sugar, scatters the grains into the dark liquid, then adds a splash of milk and begins to stir. He counts…one…two…three…four complete turns before she removes the spoon, taps it on the rim of the cup…once…twice, then places it on her napkin. Her index finger curls around the handle and she brings the vessel to her lips, closing her eyes as she takes in the aroma of fresh coffee. Then, she lightly blows into the cup, once…twice…three times, before taking a sip. She rests her coffee on the table, pours a healthy amount of syrup on her pancakes, cuts a bite-sized piece, and tastes it, the right side of her mouth curling upwards as she chews and swallows.

Seeing Lydia comfortably settled next to him floods Stiles with a warmth that he is sure he could get used to. It awakens him from the spell he is under, so he can quietly begin to eat his breakfast.

"These are excellent Sher—Noah."

"Thank you. It's my wife's recipe."

"Blueberry are my favorite," she elaborates. The sound of her voice has an inflection that Stiles has never heard before. It's quite like the melody of a song that draws you in the very first time you hear it. It holds a mix of gratitude, awe, and innocence. For the second time this morning, Stiles experiences a moment where his love for Lydia expands beyond his wildest imagination.

"I'm glad…but I can't take credit for getting that right. You see, this hyperactive little bird told me the pancakes _had_ to be blueberry," he admits with a chuckle.

"Dad!" Stiles chokes on a mouthful of pancakes.

Lydia turns to face him, willfully trying to hide a twinkle of a smile. She places her hand between his shoulder blades until he is able to catch a breath. Stiles takes a swig of coffee to help him swallow. He shoots his father a look, grimacing with embarrassment…until he feels Lydia slide her hand along the length of his arm, pressing her palm into his when they connect, then finally lacing their digits together.

Every so often, Stiles notices Lydia looking around like she is trying to bind her surroundings to memory and holding his hand a little tighter. He remembers a pretty, eight-year-old girl with sparkling green eyes and a braid of strawberry-blonde encircling her head like a crown. She was seated next to him, leaning forward in the darkness of a theater, her hand gripping their arm rest as the entire third grade class saw _The Wizard of Oz_ on stage. He remembers not being able to concentrate on anything but that girl, as she silently mouthed the lyrics to _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_. He remembers wishing the play would never end, just so he could sit next to her.

They continue with their breakfast, intertwined hands swinging gently between their chairs. Stiles thinks maybe this is exactly how things are supposed to be – the two of them – doing something completely normal like having breakfast, clinging to each other to cast out the darkness, somehow finding solace in each other during unbelievable heartbreak…while everything else fades away.

Eight years have passed since that first impression of love, and Stiles still wishes he could sit next to Lydia, just a while longer.


	8. Wander this World

**Present Day:** March 26

On Tuesday, Lydia doesn't go to school. She spends much of the day reading through the collection of notes that Stiles has left for her over the past few months. The last one reads: _Remember,_ _I'll always come back to you._ It is dated March 14, and it is the only note he placed directly into her hand.

Lydia remembers that it was just after dark when she heard a knock at her window and the sound of it sliding open. She remembers the wild fluttering in her stomach when he climbed into her room and the sinking feeling that followed when she saw his expression; beautiful face wracked with fear, uncertainty, and culpability. She remembers Stiles telling her that he would be checking into Eichen House that very night. She remembers not being able to breathe as she heard the words: _I have to leave you for a while. I don't want to. I wouldn't…if I thought I had a choice…but look at what I've done. I've already hurt Scott, and I can't risk hurting you too._ Lydia silently protested; shaking her head and gripping his sweatshirt. She remembers standing ever so close and pleading, with words – asking him to wait, to look for another way – working ardently to convince him that they could figure it out _together_.

She remembers seeing love in his eyes…even through all of the pain. She remembers feeling that love in the way Stiles touched her face with shaking hands and hearing it in the softness of his voice. Her heart and her arms were drawn like magnets towards him, and he met her embrace just as passionately. His soft lips were pressed against her forehead while both of their tears trickled down her face. She remembers the quaking she felt as they cried, and not being able to tell if it was Stiles or herself – then being struck by the realization that it was both of their bodies, shivering in the silence.

She was so caught up in not wanting to let go of Stiles that she never felt him slip a small piece of paper into her palm as he clenched her hand. Lydia didn't notice the precious fragment until he reluctantly let go, whispering _I'll come back to you_ into her ear before kissing her cheek, turning to leave, and closing the window behind him. She remembers not sleeping that night; tossing and turning with worry. She remembers thinking nothing could feel worse. Now, she knows it can…and it does.

She also remembers that Malia was a patient at Eichen House during the time Stiles was there, but she pushes the thought from her mind. She doesn't want to think about Malia, or Malia and Stiles.

Lydia can't believe that the devotion Stiles conveyed for so long could disappear in just a few days' time. She can't believe that the boy who has always been there for her, who whispered sweet words and held her through the darkest hours of the night, who wiped her tears and kissed her hands, who knows her better than anyone…even her own mother, she can't believe that he would abandon her now, when she needs him the most.

She looks for tangible proof of his affection. She lies down, on his side of the bed, goes back to the very first note he gave her, and begins reading through each one. Tracing his penmanship with her fingertips, she wishes she could relive every minute she spent with Stiles, even the difficult ones. She still sees love in his writing. It was there.

 _Don't start doubting yourself now,_ she hears. _You knew it…you felt it._

She laughs; cruel hollow sound echoing in the vast empty space that surrounds her. _Maybe it was there, but he left anyway…and this time, he didn't promise to come back to me. He didn't even say good-bye._

Scott calls her in the afternoon. They talk for a long time, and both agree to make an effort to go to school the following day. He doesn't mention Stiles and neither does she. Lydia assumes he knows everything. When they hang up, she wants to call Stiles…one more time, but she is afraid Malia will give her the answer she doesn't want, so she puts the phone aside and shifts to her side of the bed, shivering against unwelcoming cold sheets.

* * *

Stiles goes to school on Tuesday. Lydia and Scott are not there again, and he didn't expect them to be. Everything is the same as it was the day before, except it's more difficult because the more time that passes without hearing from Lydia, the more indisputable it becomes that she wanted him to go, and the more it hurts.

When he is in class, he rips a segment of paper from his notebook, scribbles another message, and puts it in his pocket. He still sees Lydia everywhere he goes. Today, he looks down at his hand and sees her fingers laced with his and feels her little gold ring pressing between his knuckles. He flips through the copy of _Catch-22_ that she lent him, tracing the notes she wrote in the margins with his fingertips.

He is relieved to learn that Malia won't be at lunch because she has a session with her tutor. Stiles spends the time with Kira, and it's easier to be around her because she is sympathetic and doesn't ask so many questions. There is an aura of disappointment and uncertainty about her, but she puts on a brave face when she asks how Scott is doing. He knows how she feels. He has been there – heart captivated by a person who is preoccupied with thoughts of someone else. He wishes there was something he could say to make her feel better, but he can't think of anything.

Getting through another day is trying. There is the same tightness in his throat and chest, and the same overwhelming feeling of loss pressing down on his shoulders. When he visits Scott after school, Stiles almost makes it through the entire visit without thinking of how he twisted the blade inside his best friend's stomach...almost. The two boys talk for a long time, and Scott tells him that he is going back to school the following day. Stiles wonders if Lydia will be there, but he doesn't ask Scott. In fact, neither of them mentions Lydia.

* * *

March 27

On Wednesday, Lydia wakes up alone, for the third consecutive day, to the blaring sound of her alarm clock, instead of the comforting sound of Stiles's morning voice. Having grown accustomed to the dim provided by overcast skies, the sunlight pouring through her room seems abnormally bright. She slowly gets out of bed wishing for clouds to reappear so they can ease the sting from her eyes.

She showers with the hot water cranked as high as it will go. After brushing her teeth, Lydia meticulously blow-dries her hair, parting it at the center and leaving it down around her shoulders; an extra layer of protection from the outside world. Then she picks out a plain black romper to wear, matching it with opaque tights and a heavy cream-colored sweater to combat the chill in her bones. She sits at her vanity and puts on a layer of makeup to conceal her grief. The aching in her chest intensifies as she slips on her boots and fiddles with the zipper that always sticks. She remembers warm hands circling her ankle and long fingers adeptly managing the stubborn closure for her. Pushing the thought from her mind, Lydia picks up her books, says good-bye to Prada with a heavy heart, and drives to school in silence.

At school, she cautiously steps into the hallway – the very place where she and Allison met. The same hallway where the two girls had one of their last conversations. The same hallway where Stiles clung to her as they backed away from the Nogitsune. The same hallway where he dropped to the ground from exhaustion – ceasing her lungs until he drew breath again. She doesn't have to remember that awful feeling for very long, because when she sees Stiles standing down the hallway, she cannot breathe – only this time she can't imagine how she will be able to start again…because she is without him, and because his beautiful brown eyes are now facing Malia. She walks by them, hoping to remain unnoticed, even though her heels click too loudly with each step. The tugging in her chest nearly jolts her backwards, but she keeps moving. Her cheeks flush when she thinks she hears Stiles say her name, but it doesn't sound real…so she doesn't look back.

The relentless deluge of memories continues throughout the day. Allison is everywhere – not just in her barren locker, her empty chair, or the memorial crafted by complete strangers, so that other complete strangers can stop by to gawk at it. She is in the echo of a laugh that the world will not hear again, the olive-green scarf that hangs in Lydia's locker, and in the conjugation of the verb _protéger_ in French class. Stiles is everywhere – not just in the hallway, in the only available seat in algebra class, or passing her in a stairway that suddenly feels suspiciously narrow. He is in the tapping of a pen against a desk, a piece of paper being torn from a notebook, the sight of a pale blue Jeep in the parking lot, the inescapably distinct light that filters into the hallway from the locker room, and the profound distance between them. Every inch of the school and its grounds assaults Lydia with another memory. She senses the rising water and struggles to fight her tears. She misses them both so much that it hurts. The pain is made worse because she wouldn't have to be missing Allison if she had been able to save her, and she wouldn't be missing Stiles if she hadn't ruined everything by falling in love with him.

The day is long and even more trying than anticipated. Lydia goes to all of her classes, but she doesn't raise her hand to answer questions or volunteer to solve equations on the board. She thinks she knew the answers once, but things that used to make sense to her don't anymore. When Stiles is near, Lydia feels pulled towards him…even when she can't see him. It is just as intense as before, except now it hurts. He is distant. He doesn't look at her, doesn't stand close, goes out of his way not to touch her. She sees the change and it hurts, but she takes his lead and does the same.

At lunch, she talks to Kira and Scott, but only if they initiate conversation because she finds she has little to offer. She tries not to look into either of their eyes. In Kira's, she sees empathy and a glimmer of hope – but it is hidden within the maze of grief that separates Lydia from the rest of the world, and she is just too worn down to search for it. In Scott's, she can see his pain as well as her own and it is so distressing that it draws the ground out from beneath her feet. He offers his lunch to Lydia when he notices that she didn't get anything for herself, but she has no appetite for it. When he pushes his tray in front of her, all she can think of is Stiles. Stiles who is positioned at the opposite end of the table…as far away from her as possible. Malia is next to him. She is always around. She stands too close to Stiles, touches him too often, looks at him in a very specific way. Lydia recognizes that look – she has seen it before. She knows what it means, and it hurts.

She gets up from the table before anyone else, muttering an excuse about forgetting something in her locker. Not a single note makes its way into her orbit. She is not surprised, but it still hurts. It's an effort, but Lydia pushes through…makes it to the end of the school day. She drives home alone. She studies alone. She cries herself to sleep – alone and missing Stiles.

* * *

Stiles is not prepared for school on Wednesday. Being in the same place as Lydia but not being able to stand near her, talk to her, or touch her is far more painful than when she wasn't there at all. In the morning, when sudden brightness lures his eyes upwards from the floor, he sees Lydia standing down the hallway…and he can't breathe. He thinks she became even more beautiful in the last two days. She makes his bruised heart beat faster, and it hurts. He hears Malia talking to him, but he doesn't know what she is saying. He directs his eyes at her, trying to read her lips because his ears are ringing so loudly. When he looks for Lydia again, she has already passed beyond his reach. He wants to call out her name. Three syllables fight their way up his throat but never make it past his lips. He swallows them, watching as a strawberry-blonde glow disappears into the masses, and it hurts.

The next time he sees Lydia is in algebra. When he enters the classroom, the only available seat is directly behind her. He thinks he sees her shoulders tense when he passes her desk. Throughout class, she keeps her head down and her back turned. He tears out a piece of paper from his notebook and writes a few lines: _Please turn around. Just for a second. I miss you_. Then he carefully folds and tucks the message into his pocket, rather than reaching over to drop it on Lydia's desk, like he normally would have done. He spends the remaining part of the hour trying not to look at her. Instead, he stares at his empty left hand – a hand that should be holding Lydia's.

At lunch, Stiles sits at the opposite end of the table from Lydia, so he doesn't make her uncomfortable again. He can't see what she is doing or hear the few syllables she voices because Malia is sitting next to him, firing off question after question about the history homework that is due in the afternoon. He senses when Lydia is the first to leave their group because something suddenly tightens around his heart and tugs in her direction. His eyes catch a shimmering glint of sunlight reflecting off of her hair as she turns away.

It's an effort but he pushes through…makes it to the end of his last class, then drives home alone. He studies alone. He crawls into bed, covering himself with the blanket he wrapped around Lydia just a few days ago. It still smells like her. He pulls it up to his nose and stares at the ceiling until he dozes off – alone and missing Lydia. Thursday and Friday are no different.

* * *

For Lydia, Thursday is much the same as its predecessor. She wanders the high school on auto-pilot, all the while, missing Allison, missing Stiles, missing the glimpses of what her life could be like if they were still a living, breathing part of it. She burnishes a forced smile when necessity calls for it, pushes as much emotion away from her heart as possible, and resumes her new routine.

As she walks to her car after school, she passes the line of school buses; harsh blast of heat from the exhaust mixed with the smell of gasoline, attacking her senses and triggering another memory. She remembers the night at the Glen Capri. She was seated next to a sleeping Allison on a grimy bus in the middle of the desert. She remembers not being able to sleep – heart still pounding in her chest, head still swimming with gruesome images of the Darach, as well as thoughts of what might have happened to Boyd, to Isaac, or Scott…of what could have happened to Stiles. He was sitting just across the aisle from her. She remembers turning to look at him, somehow knowing he would be awake too. He was already facing her, eyebrows raised in question as he ticked his head towards the door in silent communication. She distinctly recalls Stiles holding out his hand for her and how she accepted it without a second thought. She remembers the pressing need to connect with him, to touch him, to make sure he was really with her – _alive and unharmed._

She remembers the cool, early morning air underneath a gradually lessening, slate-colored sky that was scattered with charcoal-grey clouds. They sat on the steps of the bus, warming their hands on cups of hot coffee that looked far too unpleasant to drink. She remembers how Stiles hesitantly reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear…for the very first time, and how her heart skipped beats as his hand skimmed the rim of her ear. She remembers swarming with emotion, barely able to maintain eye contact with him as he thanked her for saving his life; extra emphasis on his gratitude when he thanked her for saving Scott. She remembers when she noticed his arm, battered and bruised, scraped from wrist to elbow, marking where he fell to the ground beneath her. Her mind went blank at the realization that he was not unharmed – she hurt him. She wanted to save him, and she hurt him. She wonders if he hurts now too…or if he is just relieved to be free of her.

Lydia remembers the note that appeared in her locker at the end of the next school day. The very first one Stiles left for her. The one with a cherry-flavored Life-Savers candy taped to the inside and which read: _Wanna get some REAL coffee?_ When she turned around, he was standing behind her; keys jingling in his right hand, broad smile spread across his face, and a twinkle in his eyes. It was the first time she remembers thinking maybe she loved him…but it certainly wasn't the last.

* * *

On Friday, Danny gives her a hug when he spots her at the end of the day. It's all she can do not to break down in his arms because it is the only physical contact she's had with anyone in days. As nice and as thoughtful as the gesture is, it leaves her feeling the void that Stiles left even more profoundly. All she wants is to be held by the boy who captured her heart – the boy who called her beautiful and smart in the same night, as though he were oblivious to the world's misconception that those are mutually exclusive qualities, unable to exist in the same place at the same time. All she wants is for him to tell her he still cares and make her forget the hours they have been apart…but he disappeared into the mist, and he didn't come back.

After school, Lydia drives to her house with a pit in her stomach the size of a grapefruit. She leaves her books in the hallway and calls for Prada, who skids across the wood floors, leaping into Lydia's open arms. She kneels on the floor, holding her companion tightly to her chest as she rifles through the mail. At the bottom of the pile, she finds a thin envelope for herself...orange and blue letters marking the return address in Flushing, New York. Her eyes widen. She had forgotten.

Clutching Prada, she gets up from the floor, leaving the rest of the mail to fall at her feet. She runs up to her bedroom, heart pounding in her chest, pit rattling around in her stomach, heavy as lead, branding invisible bruises into the walls of her abdomen. She grabs a letter-opener from her desk, slices through the top crease of the envelope, and moves to the bed. She stops – heat rising in her cheeks and bottom lip relentlessly quivering. Her attempts to take a deep breath are in vain because her lungs continue to resist opening to full capacity, so she settles for half of a breath. Gingerly, she glides her fingers into the envelope and pulls out what is inside. Lydia stares for a minute, blinking as her vision goes blurry, warm liquid flowing over her lashes and dripping down her face. She returns the contents to the envelope, tucking it into her night stand, and slamming the drawer shut. She kicks off her shoes and sinks into her pillow, which still smells like Stiles. Heart aching with the shrill bite of loss, she cries…and she cries with Prada curled up to her neck, sympathetically whimpering alongside her.

* * *

 **One Week Later**

Lydia thinks she should have run out of tears by now, but somehow every day there are more. Stiles now speaks to her, on occasion, but generally in single syllables and only when necessary. He still doesn't touch her…not even accidentally. He still doesn't stand less than three feet away from her. She aches for the seven nights she spent tucked into his embrace, soothed only by the vibrations of his voice and the scent of his skin enveloping her with comfort. She aches for the grey-sky mornings when Stiles coaxed her awake with two warm hands and the brilliant light that radiates from his gold-flecked eyes.

At school, she fights the pain in her chest, the need to cry, the tightness in her throat, and the knot in her stomach. At home, she surrenders, gives herself permission to sob until her pillow is soaked and her body is numb. She lathers, rinses, and repeats until it becomes part of her routine.

The pieces of her careful façade, which Stiles had almost completely broken down, are now snapping back into place…with every shallow breath. This time, however, the illusion that its presence was making her stronger and safer is gone. It merely imprisons the lighter version of herself that was fighting to be set free. It weighs her down and causes her to mourn the loss of the girl she was becoming – the girl who had a close-knit group of friends showing her what love really is, the girl who wanted to believe in birthday wishes again, the girl who was waiting for the right moment to reach for the brass ring and never let go.

Stiles may have removed himself from her life, but the love he nurtured inside of Lydia has remained. The sight of him, if only from the corner of her eye, steals her breath and makes her shudder. Her heart hastens at the sound of his voice. _She loves Stiles_ , no matter how much space is separating them. Without him, the world lacks sense and reason. _She loves him_ , but she is angry at him for leaving, for moving on with his life and forgetting about her. It's awful enough to realize that he doesn't love her back, but he also doesn't seem to want her friendship either. She wonders why it's so easy for him to ignore her. She would hate him if she thought it would make things easier, but she knows it won't and there is no part of her that could ever hate the one person who made her feel alive when she was dying inside. _He is still the best thing that ever happened to her._

* * *

Stiles thinks he should be getting used to the pain by now, but somehow every day it feels newer and more significant. Whenever he ventures a step closer to Lydia, she seems to drift farther away. There is something different about her, but he can't decide what it is because he won't let himself look at her long enough to figure it out. He desperately wants to talk to her – about anything, everything, or nothing at all. He remembers how they would get caught up in conversations for hours, completely losing track of time, often into the early morning hours. He aches for the seven unforgettable nights he spent with Lydia leaning against him, all of his pain eased by the way their bodies fit together and the feeling of silky copper curls looped around his fingertips. He aches for the bleak colorless mornings when the first image to come into focus was Lydia's sleeping face, and the most outstanding sound he heard was that of his name on her lips.

At school, he fights to keep his eyes off her, to stand at a distance and not touch her. He reminds himself this is what she needs so she can heal. At home he lets his mind wander – pictures her face, remembers her molding herself around him, and the softness of her skin against his. He wonders if there is any part of her that can begin to forgive him, that maybe misses him, or at least wishes things were different. He is afraid he won't like the answers to any of those questions – not that he is in the position to ask.

He can't be with Lydia, but he loves her still. A second's long glimpse of her is all it takes to knock the air from his lungs. His heart races at the sound of her voice. _He loves her_ no matter how much space he allows between them. The tugging in his chest seems more determined to pull him in her direction. He doesn't know how much longer he can keep this up. Without her, the world is one without sense or reason. _He loves her_ , but it hurts that she accepted his absence so willingly. He knows she can't love him…especially not now, but he can't completely let go of the hope that things will change. She is still the only girl he has ever loved and the only one he wants to be with. She is the center of his life – the girl who made the sun come out. _She is still the best thing that ever happened to him._

* * *

 **Two Weeks Later:** April 18

It's late afternoon on a Thursday. Lydia and Scott are sitting on the floor with a stack of chemistry textbooks. As he works through his last set of practice equations, she looks around the room. Although they are in Scott's bedroom, Lydia hasn't been able to stop thinking of Allison or Stiles since she arrived. Their group of four spent so many hours in this space – strategizing, talking, laughing, sharing pizza, watching movies. The dart board reminds her of Allison; no one could best her score. There are photographs of her too; her smile calls out to Lydia from across the room. She notices Scott's lacrosse gear in the corner, his little league trophies on the bookshelf, and the unopened Star Wars DVD collection on the nightstand. They remind her of Stiles. Even the soft gold color of the walls makes her think of the flecks in his eyes. She has not seen those sparkling glints for nearly one month. Lydia can feel the grief expanding in her chest, so she shifts her gaze to Scott's paper, reviewing his work upside-down.

"Scott, those are all perfect. You're going to ace that exam tomorrow."

A pair of expressive, dark brown eyes meet Lydia's as Scott looks up from his notes, shaking his head. "If I do, it will be because you helped me."

Lydia purses her lips. "You had the concept down, you just needed to be pointed in the right direction when it comes to balancing the formulas."

They both sit for a moment; the silence is heavy but not uncomfortable.

"Well, I should probably get going," Lydia says, passing the bulky text that has been resting on her lap over to her friend.

As Scott reaches for it, his hand bumps against her thumb for a split-second and he experiences a sharp flicker of hurt. He looks at her pensively. He can't remember feeling someone else's pain so intensely from such fleeting contact. It makes him worry about her more than he already has been…especially since his conversation with Stiles a few weeks ago. It's obvious that Lydia has not been the same since Allison died – none of them have been – but he is fairly sure that her strained relationship with Stiles is intensifying her grief.

When Scott realizes he is staring, he breaks from it, leans back on his hands, and scans the room trying to think of something to say. "It's uh…a long time since you've been here."

Lydia notices the way Scott has been studying her. She would turn away if she thought she could hide the emotion that is compiling inside. There is really no point in doing that with Scott – he can sense how she is feeling anyway. It's slightly uncomfortable, being so exposed, but in a way, it helps to know that he cares enough to look so closely. She appreciates that it must be awkward for Scott to be poised somewhere in the middle of the space between Stiles and herself, and she is grateful not to have lost his friendship along with everything else. She knows Scott understands the kind of heartbreak she is going through – _he lost Allison and she lost Stiles._

"Yeah, I guess it has. Things have been…different lately," she points out.

Scott ducks his head to meet her eyes. His voice is saturated with sincerity when he speaks. "I hope it doesn't stay that way. You're always welcome here. You know that… Right?"

She blinks back tears and smiles, but it doesn't touch her eyes. Scott returns the gesture in a similar manner. _This is how they smile now._

"Hey…why don't you stay a while? If you're hungry, I could pick up some take out," he suggests hopefully before nibbling on his lip. "And…uh…Stiles is going to stop by later."

Lydia's heart races at the sound of his name, and she knows Scott will be aware of it. Her eyes widen in response to the dangerous direction the conversation has headed. "I don't think that's a good idea," she replies.

Scott notices the change in Lydia's heart rate and demeanor. He doesn't want to upset her further, so he rests a reassuring hand on her arm. In doing so, he gets a greater sense of her pain, and it is so severe that he startles. He immediately wants to do something about it. He figures it's not his place to get involved in Stiles and Lydia's relationship, but neither of them has been able to budge and he can't stand knowing they are suffering.

"Aww…Lydia…it's worse than I thought."

She knows he is referring to the state of her relationship with Stiles, as well as the pain she is emitting. She says nothing, puts her head down, and fiddles with the zipper on her boots – the one that always sticks.

"You guys need to talk. It can't go on like this."

"I can't. He doesn't want to see me…because of what I said."

"I don't believe that. I know he misses you."

Lydia shakes her head. "Scott, you don't have to say that. He has gone out of his way to—" She pauses for an abbreviated breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… You guys are best friends, and I don't expect you to see my side of this…but I can't. I tried but—"

"Lydia, _we_ are friends too," Scott interrupts. "We're more than friends. _W_ _e're family_."

Touched by his words, Lydia's eyes begin to mist again. She willfully fights the current onset of droplets because if she starts to cry now, she doesn't think she will be able to stop.

"Scott, you don't know how much that means to me. You are one of the kindest and most genuine people I know. You're my family too, and I don't take that lightly because…let's face it…I have so little family as it is…but that is exactly why I won't put you in the middle."

Scott didn't think there were any other ways that his heart could break, but Lydia just demonstrated there is at least one more. As much as she is trying to hide it, she is radiating loneliness, anguish, and fear. He already knew that Lydia was strong, but he never fully comprehended the depths of her strength until this moment. Considering the amount of strain she is under, Scott is amazed that she is able to function, let alone actively work to conceal herself from the world.

"It hurts me to see you like this. It hurts me to see my best friends not talking. There has to be some kind of misunderstanding. You two can figure it out – you always do."

"I'm not sure this time. At least not now." She tilts her head upwards to contain her tears, repeatedly blinking towards the ceiling until they dissipate. Then she rises from the floor and wraps her arms around herself. "I had better go. I'll see you tomorrow."

Lydia looks towards the door and back to Scott, then picks up her bag and begins to make her exit. When she reaches the threshold, she stops. She just needs to know one thing and Scott is probably the only person whom she can ask.

"Scott?"

"Yeah?" he asks, as he follows her to the door.

"Is… Is he okay? I realize things are…different, but I just need to know that he's okay." Lydia winces as she hears her own voice cracking over each word.

Scott steps closer and places both of his hands on her shoulders. "He'd be better if you two were talking again. So would I." There is nothing but honesty in his voice, in his face, in his touch. "If you just talk to him, I know it will get better for you too."

She marvels at his ability to remain hopeful. Scott has been through just as much trauma as she has, yet he hasn't succumbed to the darkness. No matter how deeply he has been hurt, his kindness never wavers. He remains supportive of his friends in every circumstance; not a single bitter bone in his entire body.

"How do you do it?" she asks.

"Do what?"

"With everything that's happened…how do you keep…from getting lost in the dark?"

He hunches down to meet her gaze. "I look to my friends. You can do that too, you know. There's no shame in asking for help."

Scott's words hit her – _hard_. She knows Scott means to be comforting, but the last time she asked for help…Stiles left her. She surrenders to the pain, unable to control her tears for a second longer.

"I've ruined everything," she gasps. Smashing her eyes shut, she covers her mouth with her hands and begins to turn away, but Scott pulls her into a hug.

"Hey…come here. I'm sure you didn't. Shh…it's going to be alright," he soothes. "The two of you can work through this. I know you can. Okay? And until then, if you need anything…anything at all, I want you to come to me. I don't want you thinking you are alone…because Lydia you aren't. I'm here for you."

He brings her close and holds her as tightly as he can without hurting her. Lydia's arms are caught between their bodies, and he can feel her grabbing onto the front of his shirt. As Scott rocks her back and forth, the tension and aching start to leave her body and flow into his. The pain is crushing, but he is more than willing to take it from her. It's the least he can do for the girl who saved his best friend's life, as well as his own.

The embrace has a powerful effect on Lydia. It is a genuine, Scott McCall bear-hug. No one has hugged her since Danny, and that was several weeks ago. She almost forgot what it feels like to have someone's arms surrounding her. For the first time since Stiles left, she isn't as cold on the inside. She feels something other than pure pain. She feels comforted and she wants more.

She lifts her head abruptly and Scott is right there – rich brown irises and beautiful tan skin, distinct crooked jawline and small scar on his left cheek. His head is angled towards her, eyes soft and sympathetic. _Scott is my friend. I can trust him. He wants to help me…and maybe he can._ She thinks about kissing him. She's done it before, and she wonders if he would let her now – now, when she is so lost and so deprived of affection. Maybe it will make her feel…better…if only for a few seconds.

She turns her head to the left and her nose bumps Scott's upper lip…a fraction of an inch more and their mouths would make contact. _Friendship is a form of love,_ she thinks _._ _Scott and I love each other. We are both grieving. We can seek solace in each other, and it doesn't have to be romantic._ She knows Scott understands the kind of hurt she feels – he lost Allison…and she lost… _everything_.

Scott freezes. He is pretty sure that Lydia is about to kiss him, and he knows it would be a mistake; it isn't what she really wants. He understands that she is heartbroken over Allison and something instinctual tells him that she is heartbroken over Stiles too. So, Scott does the only thing he can think of – he gives Lydia time because he knows she will do the right thing. He doesn't move. He just waits...

Lydia stops. Maybe she could kiss Scott, but she wants to kiss Stiles. _Her_ _Stiles._ She misses him, and she wants him… _only him_. Suddenly aware that her discomfort is lessening, Lydia drops her head to Scott's shoulder. She is not ready to let go of the pain. Right now, it is her only link to Stiles, and she would rather ache for him than be consoled by someone else…even if that someone is as incredible as Scott.

She releases his shirt, relieved that he didn't embarrass her by pulling away with disgust and infinitely grateful that he let her make the decision to stop. Scott is the real deal – True Alpha, even truer friend. She slides her arms around his neck, presses a kiss to his cheek, whispers a thank you, and steps through the doorway.

"Lydia, wait."

She turns back.

"Please, just think about talking to Stiles. Don't give up on him. I don't believe for _one second_ that he has given up on you."

She looks at her friend a bit longer before quietly heading down the steps, pondering the advice. Scott knows Stiles better than anyone, and he sounded so certain that she starts to believe he could be right. Just as she reaches the last step, the front door opens, and Stiles comes into view.

As he enters the house, Stiles's jaw slackens and Lydia's posture tenses. Both stand still – paralyzed with love and fear – their eyes connecting for the first time in twenty-four days, neither sure of what to do next.

Lydia finds her voice first. "Hi," she says breathlessly.

Stiles is at a complete loss for words. He certainly didn't expect to run into Lydia, and until she speaks, he is convinced that he is imagining her; a figment conjured up from weeks of intense longing. It's difficult enough to maintain composure when he knows he is going to see her, but at least then he can brace himself for the force of the wave before it knocks into him. Being caught off-guard like this makes him more unsteady; he may as well be fourteen again and barely able to stand in her presence. He holds onto the doorknob for support. It is impossible for him to focus on anything besides Lydia.

He can tell by her wide-eyed gaze that she is just as surprised to see him. Her cheeks are turning pink and her left hand is pressed flat against her stomach. His insides liquefy when he recognizes the pale blue dress she is wearing – the one she wore the day she kissed him. For weeks, she has been appearing to Stiles in this same blue dress. But the reality of her standing in front of him…in that dress…in this moment, has an even more powerful effect on his mind. She is so beautiful that it hurts.

A thrashing upsurge of love washes over him, and he uses the energy of it to quickly clear his throat, so he can respond. "Hi."

At the sound of his voice, Lydia's heart reaches a furious pace. It is obvious that Stiles is stunned by her presence. His lips are quivering in a way that tells her he wants to say something else, but he is obviously searching for words, and his face is painted with emotion which she can't quite discern. The afternoon light glows behind him through the open doorway and he so remarkably handsome that it makes her lightheaded. He is wearing his favorite dark grey baseball jacket, a two-toned grey tee shirt, and his red pants. The sight of him transports her to the day she kissed him. The memory makes it impossible for Lydia to deny the swell of butterflies that have been released, and the trembling hand she has placed over her stomach does nothing to settle them. Feeling out of place, she nervously licks her lips, which have gone completely dry.

"I was…just leaving," she finally says.

"Oh," he replies with disappointment. It seems she can't get away from him fast enough.

Thoughts are rushing through his mind, but there are so many things Stiles wants to say that he can't decide how to begin. He is annoyed at how quickly he has regressed from having the ability to talk to Lydia for hours at a time, to the poor excuse for communication he is currently exhibiting.

Lydia notices Stiles shifting his gaze towards the floor. His body language tells her that he is uncomfortable, and his tendency towards single word responses dashes out the hope that Scott encouraged in her just moments ago. She wants to stay and talk to him, but concludes it is best that she leaves before she says or does something that she will regret.

"Scott's upstairs."

"Okay."

"Well…bye," she replies in a hushed tone as she heads for the door.

The two reluctantly move forward, awkwardly crossing each other's paths a few feet from the doorway. Neither wants to part; both assume the other wants the opposite.

Stiles feels Lydia's shoulder brush against his arm as she passes. _She is so close_ – closer than she has been in weeks, and he can't control the urge to stop her. They are headed away from each other, but he turns quickly and catches her hand in his.

"Lydia."

She doesn't turn around; she merely halts in her tracks and closes her eyes at the warm contact she has been missing. This is not only the first time Stiles has touched her since he left, it is also the first time she has heard him say her name since that night. Despite weeks of estrangement his hand is still familiar, and her own name sounds strangely beautiful when it passes his lips.

"Yeah?" she responds softly.

He knows that he is taking an unfair risk, but he needs to look at her again. Stiles tugs on Lydia's hand once…then a second time.

Despite all of the uncertainty between them, she knows what he is asking. When she turns towards him, the right side of her face is masked by a strawberry-blonde waterfall.

Without thinking, Stiles lifts his free hand and gingerly brushes her hair aside. His thumb grazes over her cheek and lingers at her jaw for a fraction of a second. He is trying to look into her eyes to see if fear still resides there, but she is looking down at his hand.

Lydia silently follows his hand with her gaze. She wants to look into his eyes, but she is afraid she won't see any love there, so she doesn't. It seems better to leave the memory of that image untainted. Her heart continues to thunder against her ribs. She understands its message, and she is pleading with Stiles to understand it too. It's calling for him to say he misses her, to reassemble all the shattered pieces and make her feel whole again. He doesn't, and it hurts.

He is waiting for her to look up, but her eyes remain shrouded by rows of thick lashes. There are tiny shimmering droplets clinging to the ends of them. He wonders why she has been crying. He thinks if he can just keep her there for a few seconds more, maybe he can figure it out. He can't, and it hurts. He is relieved if she has been able to confide in Scott, but he still longs to be the one she goes to when she is upset. He reminds himself that he can't be that person and that it's selfish to hold onto her.

"Don't forget your sweater," he says quietly.

Stiles lets go of her hand, then reaches towards the coat rack that is positioned behind her. He lifts her light grey knit from its hook and drapes it over her shoulders. Then he steps aside, shoves his hands into his pockets, and averts his eyes from his love.

She is still holding the half-breath she managed to intake when he touched her hand. When Stiles covers her shoulders, Lydia finally exhales with a barely detectable shudder. _He is so close_ that she feels too week to avoid eye contact any longer. By the time she gathers the courage to lift her head, Stiles has already increased the space between them and aimed his focus on the wood floor. Lydia reminds herself that he left, and that she should let him go, if that's what he wants.

"Thanks," she whispers. Then she turns away, closing the door behind her.

Stiles watches her go and it is painful. More than anything, he wants to follow after her and beg her to stay with him. He thinks if she had looked at him, if he had been able to detect one tiny hint of forgiveness in her eyes, then he wouldn't have been able to stop himself. He imagines he would already be out the door, hastily calling her name. When she turns back to him, he would crash into her, slide his arms around her waist, and bury his face in her silky hair, filling his lungs with the scent of her. He would draw her close enough to stamp out the space between them once and for all – and she would let him. She would tell him she forgives him, that he doesn't frighten her anymore, and that she loves him too. He would cover her face in kisses, until neither of them could see straight. By the time Stiles snaps out of his daydream, his hand is extended towards the doorknob. He drops his arm to his side. He knows he can't do any of the things he imagined. Things like that don't happen in real life.

He turns towards the steps when he hears a creak in the floorboards from above. Scott is standing on the top landing looking dejected. "What the hell happened? Why didn't you talk to her?" he asks.

"What was I supposed to say? Do you forgive me yet? Are you still afraid of me? I'm sorry I killed your best friend."

"How about the _truth?"_ Scott says plainly.

Stiles looks at him with a blank stare.

"How about I love you…and you are the best thing that ever happened to me…and I want to fix things between us – right now," he suggests, before heading for his bedroom, shaking his head with frustration. "That would have been a good start," he calls over his shoulder.

Stiles follows with a loud sigh, "Yeah…in my dreams."

* * *

Slowly, Lydia walks to her car…waiting, hoping that Stiles will come after her. She is praying that she will hear the front door of the McCall house opening. She wants Stiles to call out her name and hasten his movements to catch up with her. She wants him to surround her in his comforting embrace and whisper that he loves her in between kisses that make her forget all the awful time they have spent apart. She misses him so much that she knows she would melt into him – consumed with love, thankful to finally have him close again. She would kiss him back, and the words she has been withholding for so long would flow so freely from her lips that it would shock the both of them. She grows more disappointed with each step. When she reaches the car, she takes another look at the doorway. Stiles is not there. She realizes how foolish she has been. None of what she hoped for can actually be. Things like that only happen in movies.

She settles into the driver's seat replaying the last few minutes in her mind. She wonders how there can be any possible chance for them, like Scott implied. If Stiles had just let her see his eyes, if he had looked at her like he used to, then she would have poured her heart out to him. Maybe it would help him remember how he used to feel about her. Maybe he could love her again.

Lydia wishes she had tried harder – insisted that he look at her. She is angry with herself for not making him talk to her, whether he wanted to or not. She regrets not making him explain why he left or why he doesn't want to be around her.

She is thoroughly confused because Stiles hardly spoke to her, but when he said her name it was laced with such sweetness that it made her think he could still love her. He hasn't touched her for weeks, but when he caressed her face, he was so gentle that it made her feel as though she was precious to him…and it felt like before. She wants to believe that things could change again, that they can find their way back to each other. She wants to believe that perhaps this encounter was the first step in that direction.

Lydia is met with further disappointment when she goes to school the next day and finds that nothing has changed – Stiles is still miles away and hidden from her view.

* * *

 **One Week Later:** April 25

After school, Stiles is standing in the parking lot with Scott when a dynamic breeze carries a band of strawberry-blonde into his peripheral vision. It's not the first time this has happened, but today feels different. Stiles leans his forearms atop the hood of his Jeep, struggling more than ever to keep his eyes down.

"It's an abbreviated school day tomorrow. She told me she's going to spend the afternoon at her house…so she can get ahead in her AP classes," Scott informs him.

"Huh—What?" Stiles stutters.

" _You heard me,_ " he replies, stepping closer and nudging Stiles in the upper arm. "Dude, this is ridiculous! Look, I've tried not to get involved…to let the two of you figure this out on your own, but it's been a _month…a whole month_ …and neither of you are budging. Would you just stop being so damn stubborn? I mean _seriously_ … _just for one minute…let yourself remember what it feels like…and look at her already!"_

 _Scott is right. Of course he is._ Stiles has reached his limit. Every day for one month, he has fought the desire to give in to his feelings, and every day for one month, he has felt his resolve weaken and his anxiety grow. Today, he is just too tired to keep pretending that Lydia Martin doesn't have a massive hold on his heart. Today, he risks a glance and is shocked to find that her eyes are already pointed in his direction. Today, rather than immediately breaking contact, Stiles allows himself to look at her – _really look at her_.

He is not sure how it is possible, but Lydia is more beautiful than she was one week ago, when he ran into her at Scott's house. Her hair is cascading over her shoulders in pretty waves, and she is wearing a dark blue floral dress with her favorite denim jacket. She stands by her car talking to Kira, but her eyes are definitely locked on him.

Stiles cannot withhold a smile. He sees Lydia's eyebrows arch with surprise, and he thinks she is going to look away, but she quirks up one corner of her mouth…then the other…and it nearly knocks him to the ground. The love for her that is always pumping through his veins, is now rushing at such a rapid speed that he is taken with a sense of dizziness. The sight of her is so profoundly encompassing, Stiles thinks his heart will burst into flames and possibly be reborn from the ashes, just so he and Lydia can start again.

"Stiles, I can hear your heartbeat," Scott informs him through a clenched jaw. "The two of you need to talk. You deserve the chance to work it out…to be together. Can't you see? You are only hurting each other more this way. _I can't take it anymore._ "

"Neither can I."

"SO… _what are you going to do about it_? Because I won't stand by and watch the two of you suffer like this anymore. It's killing both of you…and honestly, it's killing me too."

Now that he has finally looked up, Stiles can't take his eyes off Lydia. He is more certain than ever that he can't live in a world where they barely speak; a world where they don't even look at each other, let alone touch each other. He is determined not to let his nightmare continue – not after everything they have survived together.

The vision of Lydia, _his perfect Lydia_ …smiling back at him again, reignites hope in his heart. It opens Stiles up to the awareness that things between them can be made right. So, instead of working to convince himself that the only way to help Lydia is by continuing to keep his distance, he considers the possibility that the time apart may have helped. He considers the possibility that if he takes his time and works to prove himself to her, perhaps she can start to trust him again. He will do anything to get back to her – whatever it takes, she is worth it to him.

"I'm going to see Lydia tomorrow."

"Finally! It's about freakin' time!" Scott exclaims, clasping a firm hand on his best friend's shoulder.

Stiles keeps his eyes fixed on Lydia as she says good-bye to Kira and eventually breaks eye contact with him to get into her car. "Hey Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"I…uh…I'm _…"_ he stammers, finishing the rest of his thought only in his mind. _I'm nervous…and excited…and terrified…and hopeful…and god, I love her so much._

"I know. It's going to be alright though. I know it."

"What if I…" … _screw everything up?_

"Just tell her the truth and listen to her…the way you always do."

Scott gives him a tight hug, then steps back, picks up his helmet, and hops onto his dirt-bike. He looks at Stiles, who is suddenly fascinated with his sneakers, eyes glued to them as he shifts uncomfortably in place.

"You alright?"

He can't find the words, every emotion coursing through his body as he thinks of Scott's steadfast encouragement. "I think so. I just…thanks, Scott…just…thanks."

Raising the kickstand and straightening his bike, Scott answers with a smile. "Don't mention it...just make things right with Lydia, and let yourself be happy…that's all the thanks I need."

Stiles tries to swallow the lump of gratitude in his throat and waits as Scott starts up the engine and rides away. Then he pulls out a notebook from his backpack, props it on the hood of the Jeep, and carefully tears out a piece of paper. He searches for a pen, neatly writes three lines on the blank slate, then folds it, marks the front with two words, and tucks it into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

Pulling open the door and settling behind the steering wheel, he turns his head to face the passenger's seat – Lydia's seat. He remembers her next to him in a pale blue dress, her hair in a long braid resting along the curve of her shoulder, loosened wispy strands carried aloft by the breeze of the open window. As he parked outside Deaton's animal clinic, she nervously fiddled with the hem of her skirt. He remembers the setting sun turning the sky to a shade of crimson streaked with amber and indigo, last of its rays glinting off the narrow gold band on her index finger. Her eyes were still wide and shining…just like they were in the locker room…just like they were when she kissed him, but there was an unexpected shyness in her that he hadn't seen quite as intensely before. He remembers how she reached for his hand, the one that was clutching his father's badge, jagged metal pressing into both of their palms. _Stiles, we are going to get him back,_ he hears her determined voice say. _We are going to get them all back._

After she said those words, they embraced. He doesn't remember who leaned in first, and it doesn't matter. All that mattered was that _they held onto each other_. When it came down to it…uncertainty, and fear, and hopelessness creeping in…they held onto each other. They used their bond to push it all aside, anchored themselves in love to gather enough strength to take that fateful leap _together_ – below the icy waters, into the dense empty quiet, then back again. Back to each other; heart to heart, bound by an unbreakable tether.

He can almost feel her in his arms again as he remembers that day – the day of the lunar eclipse. The day he knew he would never be the same. The day his heart was shadowed in fear and anxiety, until Lydia cast them away with the touch of her cool hands, the softness of her warm lips, and the sweet breath of her lungs filling him with calm and courage. What she gifted him, is still in his possession – he can feel it, deep in the most sacred caverns of his heart. So, tomorrow he will draw on them and take another leap…blindly perhaps, but faithfully, nonetheless. Tomorrow, he is going to see Lydia, and he hopes it can be the start of something… _good._


	9. The Argument

**April 26**

He turns to leave. He is always leaving. Trying to get him to stay is like trying to hold onto fog – she reaches and grasps, but her hands come up empty. Trying to get him to stay is like trying to keep a river from running. He is always faster, and he slips through her fingers.

"So, you're just going to leave… _again!"_ Lydia exclaims.

"I'm sure as hell not going to stay here and let you intentionally pick a fight with me!"

"Fine! Go! I thought you were different Stiles…but you're just like everyone else. Aren't you?"

She turns away. She is always turning away. Trying to get her to stay is like trying to touch the clouds – she is ever-changing and far beyond his reach. Trying to get her to stay is like trying to capture a wave. She is with him one minute, and in the next, she is drifting out to sea along with the rising tide.

Stiles didn't expect things to be as they were before. He didn't expect the ease he once had with Lydia to magically return. He was prepared to fight for it though, to fight _for_ her…but not to fight _with_ her. He knew this first interaction would be awkward…more than awkward…most likely difficult, so he has tried to be patient, tried to stay calm, swallowed every harsh word she has slung at him in the last quarter of an hour. He didn't get angry because he understands her. She is hurting – grieving for Allison. When Lydia is hurt, she either shuts down or she lashes out…and right now it is the latter. He knows that, accepts that it's her nature, loves her for it even, but she struck a nerve with this particular accusation.

Now, he is angry. He whips around to confront her, staring at her with an incredulous expression on his face, his shoulders visibly moving up and down with every ragged breath.

"Lydia, _what the hell is that supposed to mean_?" he shouts, unable to control himself.

She turns to look at him when he says her name, then winces and backs away – a reflex. Though she isn't afraid of him, she is afraid of what she sees in him…or rather, what she doesn't see. His face, that used to look like comfort and love, is unrecognizable; it's been tainted by a month's long distance and an excruciating amount of pain. She isn't used to him directing anger at her. With Stiles, it has always been softness and understanding…occasional sarcasm…sometimes irritation…but never anger. She has never been on the receiving end of this emotion from him, and the thought of him being so cross with her throbs like a slap across the face.

The flash of anger Stiles pointed at Lydia is as fleeting as lightning. The person he is truly annoyed with is himself. He would be wondering why he even came over if he didn't already know the answer to that question. He can't stay away from her. _It's Lydia, always Lydia. He lives for Lydia._ He has tried to push it down, make it stop, let her go – but she has got her fist clenched around his heart, and it has been that way since they were eight years old. He hates himself for needing her so much, for putting that need ahead of hers…just so he could see her. He should have left things the way they were. He should be letting her heal, but out of his own selfish need to be in her orbit, he allowed a single smile to grant him permission to push through her doorway again. All he has managed to do since he arrived, is to upset her and argue with her.

The anger expands as Stiles faces the irresistible hold she has on him, but when he sees Lydia flinch something inside of him breaks. All he wants is to make her feel safe, not threatened, but he scared her…again. Guilt colors his eyes, but quite uncharacteristically, he doesn't automatically apologize. He is too caught up in the emotion of it all, and words would surely fail him. Instead, he puts his hands up to show her that he is backing down. Then he takes a breath and rephrases the question with a more forgiving tone, while she stares at him wide-eyed and riddled with disbelief.

"What do you mean... I'm like everyone else?"

Lydia can't understand how things fell apart so quickly. She wanted to see him – her heart skipped beats when he appeared at her door – but as soon as he stepped over the threshold, all of the hurt came flooding back. Stiles hasn't been in her room since the day of the funeral – Allison's funeral. In the month that followed, it has been nothing but averted eyes, avoidance, and fewer words than she cares to count. He hasn't so much as called her or even sent a single text. The only interaction between them – an unintended and transient encounter at Scott's house last week. At the time, Lydia had already been completely deprived of any physical contact with Stiles. That afternoon, he offered her the slightest taste of it when he briefly held her hand and grazed the side of her face with his fingertips. Ever since, she has been lying awake at night, aching for him so badly that she could scream.

Now, she feels uncomfortable. Stiles seems like a stranger, and her bedroom, where they have spent hours together, her own bedroom feels like a place she has never been before. She is hurting – more profoundly than ever. The wounds are so deep, she wonders if he can see her bleeding – her weakness for him on full display. When Lydia is hurting, her first instinct is to lash out. So of course, she picked a fight with the one person in the world she _least_ wants to fight with – _Stiles._ She pushed and prodded until he reacted, and now she is angry with herself for reverting to her usual form. Yesterday, he smiled at her. He looked at her the way he used to – for the first time in _so long_ – and it pushed the darkness away. She wants that again. She wants to be grateful just to have him with her, but she can't put aside how abandoned she has felt in his absence. Her voice cracks over the next few words as she abdicates an intended shout, for a quiet and indifferent tone.

"Forget it. It doesn't matter. Just leave if you want to," she replies after a long pause.

" _No_. I'm not going anywhere until you explain what you mean," his voice is still firm, but sensing the weight of emotion that she is so desperately trying to cover, he makes a conscious attempt to sound calm before she shuts down.

She only stares at him, merely thinking of words which her mouth refuses to articulate.

"Lydia, you can't say something like that and expect me to drop it," he urges, stepping closer.

Involuntarily, her voice quiets even further as the walls of her larynx constrict around each word. "It _means_ …it means everyone leaves me…" Her left hand finds its way to her throat as she remembers the garrote tightening around it at Jennifer Blake's hand.

She turns away. Tears start to pool in her deep green eyes as she protectively wraps her arms around her mid-section. She refuses to cry in front of Stiles anymore. Those days are over. He made it so. But then she feels his hand on her shoulder, light as a feather, though just enough to remind her he is still in the room, just enough to remind her what it feels like to have him touch her. The barely-there sensation of his fingertips sends her heart pulsing rapidly, and consequently ignites her inner fury once more. She shouldn't have let him mean so much; maybe she shouldn't have let him in at all. The self-hatred makes her body simmer with anger, and it is reflected in the tenor and volume of her voice as she rushes to finish her thought before he speaks another word.

"…AND it _means_ you have been avoiding me for _over a month_ and I don't understand why!"

She is half-shouting and half-straining to keep unwanted tears from falling. Her spacious bedroom seems small at the moment; berry-colored walls closing in around her. The open window seems to be siphoning air out of the room, rather than allowing it inside. It's difficult to breathe, and her stomach is tied into a knot which no amount of rational thought can undo.

Stiles means to keep the contact between his hand and Lydia's shoulder as light as possible, but it's worse than not touching her at all. Right now, a light touch makes it feel like she is slipping away from him. _He can't let her go_ – not again, so he increases the pressure to bring her closer. He doesn't have to look at her face to know what she is so desperately trying to do – because for him, her emotions are written all over her body. He knows – without catching a glimpse of her eyes watering, her bottom lip trembling, or her brows gathering – that she is withholding tears. He knows she is struggling not to let him see her cry…from the way she has her arms wrapped around herself and the way her shoulders are tight and hunched…to the way she is shifting her slight weight from one foot to the other and the way her chest is erratically rising and falling with incomplete breaths. He can tell she is angry because the normally pink-tinted birthmark at the nape of her neck has deepened in hue to a bright shade of crimson.

He doesn't have to look at her face to know any of this, yet he steps in front of her for the second time. He still wants to have his eyes on her… _always her._ He knows Lydia has a tendency to shy away from overt displays of emotion. For a while, she had stopped trying to disguise herself – but only with him. Now she is hiding again, and this causes Stiles significant pain, because they had finally reached the point where she could open up to him…and then he ruined everything. His stomach sinks at the thought of it. _They were so close_ , but she is drifting with the tide and he knows it's his fault. The anger inside rebuilds as quickly as it had faded. No one can make him angrier than himself.

Lydia steels herself, recognizing that she is locked between Stiles and her mirrored dresser. The way he is studying her makes her feel vulnerable. She wishes she hadn't pulled her hair up into a topknot today. If she had left it down, she could have concealed herself behind a lengthy curtain of strands to avoid making eye contact with him. It's so difficult not to look at him though. He draws her in every time with those big brown eyes and inviting lips. She fights the attraction, visibly shaking thoughts of kissing him from her mind as she begins to plot her escape.

Stiles ducks his head down to meet her troubled gaze. "I thought I was giving you what you needed, _what you wanted!"_ he says sternly and a bit more loudly than intended.

In this moment, every word, even the mere sound of his voice, causes Lydia's anger to surge to a dangerous level – a level at which she has trouble minding her words. " _What_ would make you think that? When did I ever…" Pushing his hands off her shoulders, she narrows her eyes at him. "Well, you were wrong!"

Her voice has ascended to match his, and the discomfort of being cornered is turning her inside-out. She wiggles out of the space they are sharing and crosses the room, but Stiles follows directly behind, this time catching her elbow in his hand and pulling her towards him.

"Okay then, what do you want Lydia? Tell me what it is that you want…because obviously I have _no clue!"_

He is too close. His warmth and allure are challenging her willpower, and it loosens her tongue. She knows she is going to regret what she is about to say – it is too honest, too unguarded, reveals too much – but she simply cannot stifle the words when she is this overwhelmed with emotion.

"I wanted you to _stay with me!_ I needed you! I lost Allison, and I needed _you_ …not anyone else…but you weren't there for me…and I never thought I would hear myself say those words. With anyone else I would have expected it…but not you."

"But—"

"No, you don't get to talk right now! Do you have any idea what it was for me…to let myself rely on someone? To let myself need someone _the way I need you_? To let myself fall— I trusted you…I trusted you with everything. I gave you everything I was able to…but it wasn't enough…or maybe it was too much. I let you see me, and you just walked away…like I am nothing to you."

The words are wholly unfiltered, there is no buffer between her heart and her brain to soften the blow. Heat is rising in her chest and her stomach is doing somersaults in fear of what is to come, but she plants her feet and stands her ground.

Stiles opens his mouth to interrupt, but halts when she continues without taking a breath. He feels Lydia poke him in the chest with her index finger and he takes a few steps backwards, but his arms come up to grasp her shoulders again. Even when she is this angry, she is beautiful to him. He carefully clutches at her dainty bones, pressed with the desire to keep her from putting any more space between them. He has been dreaming of touching her for weeks and now that she is within his grasp, he doesn't want to let go.

Glancing down, Lydia means to push him away, but even in the midst of all the tension it feels so good to have his hands on her that she can't bring herself to break what little contact they have. She has been starved of his attention for weeks and now that she has it, she doesn't want Stiles to let go.

"And now you show up here…like you haven't been sidestepping me for weeks! I've had to exist without _both_ of you. Allison didn't choose to leave me, but you did…and you don't get to just walk back into my life as easily as you walked out of it!"

Lydia finally stops to inhale, and it comes as an abbreviated gasp. Her cheeks are saturated with the tears that have been escaping since her outburst began. As she reaches to erase the evidence, Stiles moves his hands to her wrists, pulling them to his chest. She can feel his heart pounding against her forearms and becomes aware that hers is changing to match his pace.

It isn't supposed to be like this. She isn't supposed to be so inherently linked to another human being – except she is – and she wants it _more than anything_ …with Stiles… _only Stiles_. She wants to preserve her connection to him so desperately that the thought of breaking it, burns more painfully than the unfulfilled desire she has for him.

He is somewhat relieved when Lydia relinquishes her efforts to refuse his touch, but the suggestion that his decision was so casually made – without any thought of her, sets Stiles back on his heels. He remembers the thrashing he took from Gerard last year, leaving his face battered and bruised. He knows it hurt less than this. He grits his teeth and sucks in a breath.

"Do you think for _one second_ that it was easy for me to stay away from you? That I woke up the next day and forgot all about you…forgot _everything_ you are to me?"

His face is etched with pain and his cheeks are beginning to tingle from the heat she stirs in him. He is completely wound up with emotion, but he loosens his grip on her wrists, out of fear that he is clutching her too tightly.

"It sure as hell felt that way to me! And I—"

"No, Lydia. You had your turn. It's mine now…and you couldn't be more wrong," he responds in a low growl. "Leaving you that night was the hardest thing I have _ever_ done. I wanted to be with you for so long, and then I finally earned your trust enough to be that close to you…only to have to give it all up… _to give you up_ …when everything inside me wanted to hang onto you…to hold you…even just one minute longer. Do you have any idea what…seeing you so devastated, seeing all the pain…pain that _I_ was causing you…do you have any idea what that did to me? Well, let me tell you, it fucking wrecked me! _It shredded my insides._ I have _never_ felt worse in my life. All I've ever wanted was to see you be happy – hell, to be the one making you happy…as undeserving as I am to have that ability. Instead, all I did was make myself into a constant reminder that she is gone. It's _my fault_ Allison is gone. I know it. You know it. Everyone knows it. I have to live with it…with all the things I did. I have to live with knowing how weak I was when I let that darkness in…let it control me."

His eyes are brimming with tears that do not fall, and the sight of his grief brings Lydia down from her anger-induced high. Her hands instinctively move to his face and she relaxes at the familiar contact. She notices his red cheeks and it almost makes her smile because she has missed seeing him like that. For a brief minute, he is _her Stiles_ again. She can't help wanting to soothe him. It feels natural and right, even in the middle of their worst argument. Stiles is beautiful when he cries, but she can't stand to be the one making him cry. She loves him _too much._

She draws his face nearer until she can feel his lashes tickling her forehead as he blinks. "You aren't weak," her voice softens, lips brushing against his jaw with every word. "Stiles, you're strong. Out of all of us – _you_ are the strongest. Can't you see that? You fought your way back. You came back to me, and I wanted you to stay. I told you before…I never blamed you for anything that happened. I meant it."

Unfortunately, Lydia's attempt to comfort Stiles only furthers his distress. He doesn't think she should be trying to make him feel better. He doesn't deserve it. He should have been taking care of her. He owes it to her. It was his fault, after all. He can't let her be so gentle with him when he has caused her such intense suffering. He loves her _too much._

"I blame myself, Lydia. I blame myself," he chokes out, guilt slicing through every syllable he utters.

"I understand…but listen to me. We can get past—"

"No. I'm not going to let you do that," he interrupts, pulling her hands away from his face.

"Do what?"

"Put your feelings aside to make things easier for me." He releases her wrists, still unsure if he is holding her too tightly. Quickly straightening up, he folds his arms across his chest and steps beyond her reach.

She tries to catch his collar, to keep him close, but comes up empty. "Stiles, that's not what I'm doing. Please don't push me away. I want to help you!"

"I don't deserve your help. It was my fault! Lydia, it was _my fault_."

"Stop it. Stop saying that!"

"It's the truth! If I had only closed that door in my mind, none of it…all of the terrible things…none of them would have happened. I couldn't stand knowing you were hurting because of me. I _had_ to leave, so I wouldn't do it anymore." The more he faces the guilt, the more difficult it is to breathe. He may as well be struggling to hold his head above water in the school swimming pool, with the weight of Derek Hale dragging him down.

Lydia immediately withdraws. Stiles isn't making sense to her, and his unrelenting self-blame is starting to seem like a poor excuse to distance himself from her. It's certainly not enough to justify why he left without any explanation…or for the weeks of silence that followed.

"So, what you are really saying is that you did it for yourself! Because being around me made it too difficult _for you_. It didn't matter that you were the one person in the world who could hold me together...that having you _with me_ was the best thing in my life. What you are saying is that you would rather abandon me than face the responsibility you feel for something that was _never your fault in the first place_? This all started when we awakened the Nemeton. We all took part in that ritual… _all of us_ …Allison too. Do you blame her?"

"No. How could I?" he answers, shocked that she'd even suggest it.

"Do you blame Scott, or Deaton, or Isaac?"

"No."

"Do you blame me?"

"Of course not!" he says quickly, dropping his arms with a pained expression on his face. "I could never—"

"Would you go back and undo it – trade your dad's life, and Chris's, and Melissa's for Allison's?"

"Saving them didn't kill her!"

"That is exactly my point – you didn't either!"

Agitation building, Stiles repeatedly taps his thumb and index finger against his leg. "But Deaton warned us, he told us we had to close the doors in our minds…and I'm the only one who couldn't do it."

"You tried to…Stiles, I know you tried," Lydia responds, trying to reassure him. She reaches to link her fingers with his but feels slighted when he rejects the contact by shoving his hand into his pocket.

"But I failed you," he says flatly.

"Only when you left me."

"I did that because I saw I was hurting you!"

Lydia is wild with frustration. She takes a breath in the hopes of calming herself, but the intake of oxygen only rekindles the fire that has ignited in her chest. "The only time you have _ever_ hurt me is when you left. You think I didn't see you struggling? I wanted to be there for you! We could have taken care of each other – _that's what we do_. But instead, _you decided what I needed!_ You took the choice from me and you had no right to do it! That's what my father does to me, that's what Jacks— what _he_ did to me! You were supposed to be different!"

This accusation stings more than anything Lydia has said so far. Even the pain of the Nogitsune clawing its way into his mind pales in comparison. Stiles despises being compared to Jackson – someone who treated her so badly, someone who never understood her heart, who never appreciated how intelligent, and good, and amazing she is, someone who hurt her as easily as he drew breath and who had no regrets for all the times he made her doubt herself, someone who lied to her, used her, and was never good enough for her.

He challenges Lydia with a few steps forward. "How the hell am I like _him_? He didn't give a shit about you! He made decisions for you because he had no idea how smart you really are, and because he didn't care what you wanted or what was important to you. I was _trying_ to protect you! I thought I was doing what was best for you. I thought—"

"What? Did you think I would be grateful? Don't you see, it only makes it worse? It's worse, Stiles because I never trusted him the way I trust you!" She lets out an aggravated sigh and takes control of her tone once more. "You say you were trying to protect me. But from what? Tell me…because I have no idea how _being away from_ _you_ could possibly protect me."

"Because I'm a constant reminder…of what happened…to Allison."

"You keep saying that, but that's not the whole story. It can't be. _I know you._ I know when you're keeping something from me. If you're not going to tell me, then I'm not going to guess. Do you think you're the only one with guilt? Allison…would have _never_ been there if it hadn't been for me, and I have to live with that for the rest of my life. She died, and my heart broke. I lost the two most important people in my life – my best friends, people I lo— and I lost both of you in the same day. For a week, I let you fool me into thinking you were _still with me_ , but you were only…waiting for a chance to make your exit. I was in such a fog, I didn't realize it until the day of the funeral. I felt it then. You were different in the Jeep…and right here in this room too, but I told myself that I was being paranoid…that I _had_ to be wrong – because you said…" she pauses in an attempt to swallow the hurt. "You let me think I was safe, and then you blindsided me. You just disappeared without saying a word…without even leaving me a note. I went to sleep and when I woke up, I was in an even bigger nightmare. I was all alone. You left me to grieve for Allison all by myself, _and_ you made me grieve for you too."

She is not even trying to hide the tears anymore. Suddenly, she doesn't care about anything accept letting him know how much he hurt her.

Stiles runs his hand through his hair and scratches at the base of his neck trying to relieve some tension. "Lydia, I'm sorry. I wasn't waiting to sneak off, I wanted to be there for you – more than anything. I tried…but I saw I was making things worse. I didn't feel like I had a choice. I thought it was what you wanted, and I couldn't say good-bye. Not to you. Not when—"

"I'm not finished. You said… _you promised_ you would help me, but you broke that promise as soon as you made it…and you broke my heart too. I handed it to you, damaged as it is, thinking it was valuable to you if not to anyone else, and you dropped at it my feet, Stiles…and you broke it. _You broke my heart_. A month ago, I would have never believed that _you_ of all people would do that to me. You've always been so—"

"How Lydia? How could _I_ break your heart? It's not like…"

He is repeatedly blinking, the way he does when he is figuring something out. His mind goes blank for a few seconds, then his eyes bulge with comprehension. _Lydia does love him_ …he wasn't imagining it…and she thinks _he_ rejected her. His mind is racing. The world has turned upside-down. Again, he steps closer, but she counters it with two steps back. He doesn't want to push her further away, so he stops in his tracks.

"I don't know Stiles…maybe by acting like I'm invisible, by heading straight to someone else, by leaving me and going back to the rest of your life…like I was never in it at all. You used to look at me. God! No one ever looked at me the way you did…and now… _now_ you don't look at me at all! Do you know how much that hurts?"

"I think I have a pretty good idea, seeing as how I was invisible to you – for years!" he snaps, before closing his eyes and biting down on his tongue. He never meant to say those words, but he is still focused on the fact that she indirectly said she loves him, and he isn't thinking with a clear mind.

Lydia's jaw drops open, but she quickly reshapes her mouth into a firm line, eyebrows gathering at the middle as she folds her arms across her chest before her insides spill onto the floor. "So...were you trying to punish me? And you chose now! After all this time, you thought, _Hey, she's not suffering enough…let me see if I can finish her off_. Well good on you, Stiles! I fully comprehend how awful it feels. Thank you for opening my eyes," she spews, sarcasm rolling off her tongue.

"No, I wasn't trying to punish you! You really think I could do that to you? That I could be that cruel?"

"You mean like I was to you?" she shouts with narrowed eyes.

"Don't put words in my mouth!"

"I don't need to! You got your point across just fine! Did you think I was deliberately trying to hurt you?"

"No, of course not!" he responds immediately, cautiously taking a few more steps towards her.

"Well obviously, you haven't forgiven me. No matter what I say or do, it will _never_ be enough! I can't change the past. I can only tell you that I'm sorry, that I was a fool, that I regret it every single day of my life – but I'm not the same girl that I was then. Allison and Scott, they changed me. _YOU_ changed me!"

"Lydia, stop! All I was trying to say was that I understand how much it hurts, and I would never intentionally hurt you."

"Finish the sentence Stiles... _like I hurt you_ …go ahead…say it!"

He rolls his eyes and throws up his hands. "For the love of god, Lydia! We are talking in circles! How could I have known that I could hurt you so much when I _didn't even know how you felt_?" He runs his palms roughly over his face. "If I had any idea that you felt the same way about me…that you needed me like that, I would have never… I would have dropped everything."

"You had _no idea_? _Really?_ That is a bold-faced lie Stilinski! Tell me, what the hell have we been doing for the past year? Did I imagine it all? Have we not been there for each other… _through everything_? How could you not see it? How could you think I didn't need you – during the worst time in my life?"

"You never said anything. I left, and you never even tried to contact me. I figured I had done what you wanted – that you were better off!"

"That is _not_ true! I called you…more than once!"

"And when was that exactly? 'Cause I sat by my phone like an idiot – just waiting."

"I called you that same night – when I woke up…terrified from flashbacks… _terrified and alone_. I knew you had to have left for a reason. I thought maybe Scott needed you…or your dad. I hoped that you would come back…or at least tell me what happened. I called you but…"

"But what?"

She can't say it. If she has to talk to him about Malia right now, she is going to explode. "Nothing."

"What about after that? You could have talked to me – told me you wanted me with you! Damn it, Lydia, I'm not a frigging psychic!"

"I never said I _didn't_ want you either, but you made that leap! What happened to having an _unspoken connection_? I thought you understood – the way you always do. I thought you figured it out – the way you figure everything out – _by paying attention, by listening to me, by remembering_. I kissed you…remember? _I_ kissed _you!_ I know you never really believed that it was only about your panic attack. It was so much more than that."

Stiles hears everything Lydia is saying – she wanted to kiss him that day in the locker room, it wasn't just to help calm him from his panic attack, and it wasn't pity either. _Lydia wanted to kiss him_ – that admission alone is enough to send his mind reeling, but the words _unspoken connection_ are resounding in his head. She is using his own words against him – words she claimed not to have heard at the time. The confession both stings and soothes; he is left flabbergasted.

Lydia can see the comprehension in Stiles's face, but she can't tell if he feels for her the way he used to, and she wants to test the waters. She walks towards him and softens her voice considerably. "Don't you remember?" Her hands reach for his tee shirt, binding the gently worn fabric in her fists as she leans into him. "I kissed you Stiles. I kissed you because…we were so close, and you were always so sweet to me, and the feelings were there. Didn't it mean anything to you? Couldn't you feel it? I did. It was there…between us…it was so bright, and it was so real. I've never felt anything else like it. I thought you felt it too."

She leans nearer and nearer as she speaks, giving in to the powerful force that calls her to him. She doesn't feel completely in control of her actions, there is a mix of fear and wanting in her that makes her shaky with uncertainty. Lydia isn't sure of how Stiles will react, so she looks at him through her lashes, gnawing at her bottom lip to keep it from quivering. Stretching up to the tip of her toes, she nuzzles his jaw with her nose. Slowly, she lets her hands wander down his chest and abdomen, relishing in the way his muscles tighten in response to her fingertips. When she reaches his waist, she stops. She hooks her fingers into the belt-loops of his grey jeans, partly to keep from losing her balance, but mostly to bring him closer.

Stiles feels his breath catch in his throat. The sound of Lydia's voice is spellbinding and seductive. He can smell her shampoo and see the pulse in her neck. The tiny curls that have come loose from her topknot are framing her face in shimmering rose-toned highlights. He can feel the smooth silver bead that he strung on her necklace tapping against his collarbone. His heartbeat changes pace from a rapid and angry, but steady rhythm…to a more forceful and decidedly erratic one. He wants her so badly, it hurts. He feels the familiar tugging at his heart. It's impossible to stand there and not reciprocate some sort of physical contact with her. His hands move to her waist, squeezing the knit of her black sweater in his fingers. He tilts his face towards hers until her lips are at the corner of his mouth.

Her volume level has reduced to a whisper. "When I kissed you, I thought it would change things…and it did, but not the way I hoped."

She is so close, he can practically taste her. Stiles reflexively juts out his tongue to where her breath is breezing along his bottom lip. He knows what Lydia is doing, and he is annoyed at himself for making her think it's necessary. He doesn't need help remembering – he never forgot. She inhabits every cell of his body – _every single day_. An image of her face is burned into his eyelids. He sees her before he even opens his eyes in the morning, and she is the last thing he pictures whenever he closes them. Thoughts of her are the first to enter his mind when he wakes, they continue to assault him throughout the day, and he dreams about her at night…when and if he sleeps, that is. He hears her voice when he slams his locker shut, missing the days when she was standing on the other side of it. She speaks to him through the click of her heels in the hall and the echoing sound of her cries that have been ringing in his ears for over a month. She sings to him over the sound of familiar melodies on the radio; lyric and verse carried by her sweet voice as they rode to and from school. The dial is still set to her favorite station, and even though she hasn't been inside the Jeep in 32 days, 22 hours, and 13 minutes, he can't stand the thought of changing it. Her perfume lingers on the shirt he wore to Allison's funeral – the one that she clung to at the grave site, that she shed tears on for hours after, that he still can't bring himself to wash. He remembers their kiss – desperate and surprising, then passionate on the locker room floor. If he concentrates intently enough, he can feel her cool hands on his face and her perfect pink lips moving with his as she brought him back from the brink. He has ached for her since before he left, and even though they are standing in the same space, he aches for her still. The grip she has on his heart is unfathomably strong and whether she intends to or not, she is clutching so tightly he thinks she will crush it.

Lydia wants to make him remember what it felt like. She remembers. She couldn't forget if she tried. Stiles dwells within every fiber of her consciousness. His eyes are in the endless sky, pierced with golden sun. His smile warms her heart from the inside; his every breath chases away the clouds. The sprinkling of moles on his cheeks and neck are written in the constellations of stars she gazes at during her many sleepless nights. His laughter is transmitted through the engine of the Jeep and the noise of his locker opening at the end of a long school day. He speaks to her through the sound of her window sliding open. It makes her heart leap with memories of all the times…day or night…when he climbed through that window just to tell her something – even when it would have been easier to call or text. He is as solid in her hand as the battered baseball that has taken up residence in her room for the better part of a year, so that when they study together he has something to help him focus his attention. It's still on her desk – where he left it, and even though, until today he hadn't been in her room for 32 days, 15 hours, and 28 minutes, Lydia knows she doesn't want to give it back…because having something of his in her room makes it feel a bit like she has a real home. She remembers their kiss in the locker room – intensely consuming and astonishingly soft all at once. If she focuses carefully, she can feel the heat from his flushed cheeks beneath her hands and the intoxicatingly gentle pressure of his lips on hers as he relaxed against her mouth in the midst of a crushing panic attack. She can tell that she is affecting him as much as he does her. It offers some degree of validation, but it's not enough. She wants him to feel what she has felt for weeks. She wants him to feel the high and the low of being so near and then being without.

After an extended pause, she continues, "I kissed you, and a few weeks later I lost you…and all I could think was…maybe you realized I was never what you really wanted. Maybe you realized you wanted someone else. Maybe you were sorry that you promised to always come back to me."

Lydia releases him and steps away. She wonders if Stiles aches for her touch the same way she aches for him. When he finally makes eye contact with her, she greets him with an icy stare. She feels wicked for her manipulative act, but pain is reshaping Lydia into a former version of herself – the girl she was before Allison smiled at her and opened her heart, before Scott took her hand and made her part of a pack…part of his family, before Stiles burned down her defenses with the light from his eyes, carefully wove himself into every fiber of her heart, and dared her to fall in love with him. Now, the girl who pretends to be in control to hide how scared she is, the one who is suspicious of kindness and searches for ulterior motives, the one who feels abandoned and unworthy of love is scratching beneath the surface…waiting for the opportunity to take control. Lydia can feel it happening, and she thinks maybe she should let it.

"You could have told me how you felt. I've always listened to you. All you had to do was tell me what you wanted," he comments, looking at the floor and trying to detach his mind from the lingering feeling of Lydia pressed up against his body.

"I tried…the night you left and so many times before that. I tried, and I thought you understood…like you always have. You notice _everything_. How could you neglect to notice that I had fallen in…"

Stiles paces with frustration, shaking his head in disbelief, "You _still_ can't even say it. Can you?"

She purses her lips and looks at him but says nothing.

His tenor elevates once more. "I realize I'm not what your used to," he motions up and down along his torso with his hands, "but is the idea of us being together so _incredibly unappealing_ to you? Is it because I'm not good enough for you?"

And just like that…Lydia's anger rears up with reckless abandon. She thinks if they had been standing closer, she may have slapped Stiles across the face. It is a fleeting thought, but it horrifies her nonetheless. It slashes through her stomach like a sword…like the one that killed Allison. It impresses a forceful upsurge of guilt upon her that blurs her eyes and makes it impossible to see. She could never do that to him, she knows it, but she is beside herself with agony. _This is what he really thinks of me_. She holds her stomach, as an invisible wound threatens to split her in two. The gravity of what he has implied drags her tears downward. Large droplets cascade over her lashes, falling like raindrops onto the carpet.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now? Do you _really_ believe that's how I think of you? Is that how I treat you? All of the touching, the hand-holding, the hugging, that stupid smile I couldn't wipe from my face whenever you left me another note, the way we were on my birthday…the way we were at hom— in your house…in your bedroom…none of that was a clue! Is it _so_ _impossible_ to believe that I am attracted to you? Well, I am. _You_ are beautiful to me. I can list all the reasons why, if it will convince you of how much I want you. I want you so badly that it hurts. _It hurts_ , Stiles. How can you have the nerve to say that to me…after everything?"

The already broken pieces of his heart are shattering. Lydia started to say the words _at_ _home,_ and she stopped. His home had become home to her, but he took that from her too. He took that away from her and from himself as well because it's empty and strange now, without her.

Stiles is staring at her, but he says nothing, which only feeds her anger. She feels crazy and hysterical, and her insides are violently shaking from the searing pain that his accusation inflicts. Lydia feels her body rush with adrenaline and then, in the blink of an eye, she is spent. She is quickly going numb, and the change is reflected in her tone as it lowers an octave.

"Has the time we've spent together meant anything to you? It meant _everything_ to me – the past year…the past few months especially. Then for a week, I let myself get lost in you – _you_ , Stiles – no one else. The more you were with me, the more I wanted you to stay. You were…you were literally keeping me upright when I felt like I would crumble. I got to know what it's like to fall asleep feeling safe in your arms and to wake up next to you every morning the same way. I never knew it could be like that – so pure. I've never felt more connected to anyone. You were perfect. You were so gentle and understanding, and instead of pushing…you listened, and you opened me up in ways I didn't think were possible. It was like…you cracked me open with your kindness…and I let you, even though it scared me, because it felt more right than anything should be allowed to feel at a time like that. You were healing me – every second we were together. You made me feel alive…even though I was dying on the inside. It was the worst… _the worst_ …and the _best_ week of my life…and I loved you more in seven days than I have loved anyone in my entire life. I got lost in your eyes more times than I could count…wanted to kiss you so many times. How could you not see that? All this time, I thought I've been _showing_ you how I feel about you…but there must be something _horribly_ wrong with me if I was making it that unclear. I thought we mattered to each other on a whole other level. At the very least…I thought we were friends. I guess I was wrong about a lot of things. It's good to know what you really think of me – that I'm just a cold-hearted bitch…who's been doing nothing but using you to make myself feel better."

She can't believe he thinks so little of her. No wonder he doesn't love her. Her hand reflexively grasps her side; each partial intake of breath causing a sharp ache underneath her left rib. Though she hasn't felt any sensation there in over a year, it suddenly hurts worse than when Peter attacked her. At least then, the pain made her pass out. Now, she is fully conscious.

 _Lydia loves him. She said she loves him._ Stiles stands awestruck by the depth of her affection. She loves him the same way that he loves her. She wanted to be with him and he hurt her because he couldn't see it – no – because he wouldn't _let_ himself believe it. Stiles can think of nothing else. He may as well be paralyzed with Kanima venom, because he can't even move.

He continues to stare at her, wide-eyed with a closed fist over his mouth, watching in dismay as she changes right before his eyes. Her expression is blank, and the rosy color has drained from her face. Her eyes, that are always so bright, become shadowed instead. They are fixed on a splotch of blue ink on the carpet. He remembers inadvertently making that mark a few months ago, when he was trying to scribble a note to her – the one that read: _We are pretty good together. Aren't we?_ He thinks he should have known she loved him then – he should have known by the way she wasn't even remotely annoyed about the stain on her otherwise pristine carpet, by the way she kept looking over and smiling at him for the rest of the night, and by the way she fell asleep sitting next to him, on the floor by her bed, with her head on his shoulder. If those moments weren't enough of an indication, maybe the way she held his hand…just a bit longer…and just a bit more frequently at school the next day should have been a clue.

The silence is deafening. Even the world outside has paused – no distant conversations, nor the sound of cars passing by, no breeze rustling the empty branches of the maple tree, no dogs barking or birds chirping. It's as though they have stunned the entire universe.

Stiles can't believe how far their shouting match has gone. He can't believe what Lydia has admitted to him, and he can't believe the hurtful accusations he has hurled at her. He swore he was never going to be _that guy_ …the one who makes Lydia doubt and think the worst of herself…but anger and uncertainty can make you say awful, bitter things…and maybe Lydia was right…maybe he is like Jackson after all. He didn't even realize how much influence those old wounds still had over him…until the words scuttered across his lips. He wishes he could take them back. But wishing for things doesn't make them happen. If that were true, he and Lydia would have been together already. The culpability that is pressing down on him is suffocating. Apologizing right now will be futile. She is too hurt – _he hurt her too much_ – and she is going to shut down on him.

He tries anyway. He steps hastily towards her with his arms outstretched. "Lydia, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Yeah…you did," she murmurs, retreating to the opposite side of the room.

It's the worst pain she has ever experienced. Stiles thinks she is incapable of loving him – that she can't see how incredible he is, how brave and strong, how selfless and good, how witty and intelligent. He doesn't know that she could look at him for hours, just admiring how handsome he is. _She is lost in the darkness of the tunnels, and Stiles is on the ground beneath her. He is cold and listless; light going out of his beautiful eyes as they roll backwards while his eyelids droop shut. The boy she loves is dying, and she feels like she is dying too. She is dying, and the last thing she will remember is the agonizing feeling of Stiles slipping away from her._

"No. Listen…that's not true. You know I don't think that about you. I told you I saw the real you…and I meant it. You have to believe me. _Say you believe me._ Lydia… _please_."

It's the worst pain he has ever experienced. Lydia thinks he doesn't know her, doesn't see how incredible she is – not just her outer beauty, but the kind that's inside – how generous and caring, how pure-hearted and thoughtful, how resilient and strong _. He is lost in the darkness of the tunnels, slumped on the damp ground, sensation of pins and needles all over. The wall against his back is cold and unforgiving but Lydia is warm and soft against his chest, her tears puddling at the base of his throat. He is dying. He is dying in the arms of the girl that he loves, and the last thing he will remember is the sound of her crying._

Lydia can't face Stiles. She turns away, moves towards the window, and stares at a sky that is blazing with the radiance of the setting sun. It is a breathtaking sight, and it looks unnatural because she has never felt worse. She beholds a ring of orange and pink clouds that suspend from a turquoise backdrop and glow gold from within. _Gold – like the light in his eyes._ The similarity makes her flinch, so she looks down at the ground below her window instead. There should be tulips growing there – the ones that she and Allison planted last autumn. Instead, the view is barren and bland from a winter that still refuses to give way to spring, even though it is nearing the end of April. The soil is dark and wet with no sign of life breaking through. It's easier to look at this. It makes sense to her. _Allison is in the ground. Why shouldn't the tulips be?_ After all of the shouting, the room is now remarkably noiseless. There is a strange silence outside as well. She thinks perhaps the intensity of their argument created a vacuum effect.

The first sound she hears after minutes of dead silence tells her that Stiles is approaching. She can't see his face, but she knows he is crying too. She can tell by the uneasy breath he sucks in and the number of times that he sniffles. One, two…three…always three times.

"I don't know what to say," he admits.

"I think you made yourself perfectly clear."

"Come on Lydia, we're upset…we both said things—"

"When did you stop?" she interrupts him.

Her voice has taken on a cold and hollow quality. She doesn't sound like herself, and she won't look at him.

"Stop what?"

"I thought you loved me. _I was so sure._ When did you stop?"

Lydia is barely whispering now. It sickens her that all of her weaknesses are laid raw and ugly before him, but she is tired, so tired of withholding. She thinks she knows the answer to her own question, but she is still afraid to hear it. It was in Eichen House. Stiles stopped leaving her notes after he was in Eichen House.

Loving Lydia is as much a part of Stiles as his need to breathe. It sickens him that she thinks he stopped. _Never_ – never in one million years could he do that, nor would he want to. As much as it pained him, he tried once, last year. He thought it would make it easier for both of them; they could be friends without having his unrequited feelings hanging over them. It was a weak attempt at best. He would have more willingly given up a limb than his love for her.

"What?" He comes up behind her tugging at her shoulder, but she still doesn't face him. "Do you think it's even possible for me to stop? It's not. I know…because I've tried. I've tried, but I can't."

His voice splits over the words and so does her tattered heart.

"Well…why don't you try again? Maybe this time it will work…and you can be rid of me once and for all. I'm sorry I'm such an inconvenience…such a bad habit for you."

"Don't say that. It's not what I meant. I don't want to be without you. _Not ever_."

He steps to her side, attempting to massage her shoulder, but she shrinks away and continues to stare out the window. The crimson mark on her neck has faded to its base tone of blush pink. She pouts the way she does when she is trying to understand something. Stiles has seen her do this so many times before, but now it injures him to witness it. After a long pause, she speaks, and it seems like she is talking more to herself than to him.

"I knew it would happen. I was looking for it… I always am. In the past, I've been able to see it coming. I don't know how…but I missed it. I thought I had more time."

"What do you mean? Looking for what?"

"For a sign…a warning…that you were going to leave." She finally turns to look at him, still lacking any sign of expression; dazed from so much hurt. "What did I do? I thought I was being better for you…but obviously I deluded myself. No one…not even you, can see me any differently. No one is ever going to think of me as anything other than the way that I was. There has to be something else though…something I did…or didn't do. It can't all be because I didn't tell you? I wanted to. I tried…but I just couldn't. I felt it…but I couldn't say it. Not to you."

Stiles angles himself between Lydia and the window, where the indirect light gradually illuminates his eyes – and gold begets gold. It hurts her to look into his piercing eyes, but she is transfixed. She still loves him, even if he doesn't love her back. He is still everything to her, even if she is nothing to him. He moves his hands to her face, but she is so completely numb with heartache that she can't feel the contact. He is looking down at her with such remorse and it makes her feel pitiful.

"Lydia, why couldn't you tell me how you felt?"

She closes her eyes; they burn. "Because I wanted you…I wanted you to stay with me."

"Okay, that _literally_ makes no sense." He slides his hands to her upper arms and gives her a gentle shake in an unsuccessful effort to lighten the mood.

When Lydia slowly opens her eyes, she has the same expression that she had the day of the funeral – one of hollow resignation. She is drifting away from him. The further she gets, the more fierce the tugging at his heart becomes.

"Doesn't it though?" she asks. "I couldn't tell you because…because those words are like poison for me. My entire life – I love you has always been synonymous with good-bye. I said it to my grandmother, and she never came home. I said it to my father – I _pleaded_ with him not to leave me. I clung to his coat and cried in the doorway…all the while saying those words…and he left me anyway. I said it to Allison and _she died_ …she is gone because she wanted to save me, because she loved me…and now…I'm still here…without _her_ , but _with_ the burden of knowing I didn't prevent it from happening. I didn't protect my friend. I failed her. So, I tried to learn my lesson, I _didn't_ say it to you…not because I didn't feel it, not because I think you aren't good enough for me. If anything, you are too good for me. I was just trying to break the cycle. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you too…but you left me anyway. What was I supposed to do? What would have been the right thing to say or do…to get you to stay? No matter what, everyone leaves."

"Lydia, I'm here."

His face is stricken with the awareness of the damage he caused. Lydia was trying to express her love, without words. When she asked him to help her…she meant she needed him to understand what she couldn't say. _How could I have gotten it so wrong_? _How could I have refused to see the one thing I've been waiting for since I was eight years old?_ Presently, Stiles can recall dozens of times over the course of the last few months where her love should have been obvious to him. At the time, he convinced himself that every prolonged touch, every shy smile, every lingering glance was a mark of friendship, rather than a sign of her affection. Reading into those interactions in any other way seemed like wishful thinking. Now, Stiles sees the truth in each of them and he feels like a complete fool.

He moves one hand to Lydia's waist, trying to pull her into a hug, unsure if he means to comfort her, or himself, or both of them. "I'm right here and we can fix this. I came here to—" He feels her body tense and struggle against him.

Her arms are locked between them. She contemplates how it is possible for something to feel so awful yet so comforting at the same time. She is desperately fighting the embrace, but at the same time, she wants nothing more than to accept it. She feels frail and helpless, and the upset gives one last burst of strength to her voice.

She shakes her head. "But you weren't. You left, and I still needed you," Lydia interrupts. "So fine. You want to hear the words? I love you. _I love you_ Stiles…so much that I can't even breathe without you. Are you happy now? I said it! Now you're free… You can leave."

For all of the times she dreamed of saying those words to Stiles, this was never the way she imagined it. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It was supposed to feel like everything was falling into place, not coming apart.

For all of the times he dreamed of hearing Lydia say those words, this was never the way he imagined it. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It was supposed to feel like everything was right with the world, not like the end of it.

"Lydia don't do this, _please_. Don't shut me out now. Tell me how to fix this. We can make it right again. Just give me a chance…to explain."

"Let go."

"No. I can't let go of you."

"You already did," she sobs.

"That's not true. _You know it isn't_."

Stiles strengthens his hold on her. Despite everything – an emotionally draining shouting match, the hurt feelings, the regrets – he still wants to kiss her. He knows it's not a solution, but maybe she will be able to feel how much he loves her. Maybe it can be the start of something. He has no clue where to begin…how to mend what is broken between them, but he trusts her to stop him if this is the wrong thing to do.

His arms are strong around her, his warmth now burning her skin, and though Lydia can't get out of his embrace, she knows Stiles will stop if she tells him to. She feels him cautiously leaning closer with each passing second. His lips are so close that she can almost taste him. She thinks he is going to kiss her. A big part of her wants to give in, to let him do it, to melt into him and try to forget everything that came before. An equally persuasive part of her wants to deepen it, push him over to the bed, and completely lose herself in him…but she can't do that now. He is too important to her, and it will ruin everything. It will ruin them because after the ecstasy of being together, all of the pain will be waiting for them, and when it all comes flooding back, their wounds will hurt worse than they do now. She will feel ashamed of herself, and he will feel used. She will push him off of her, and there will be more harsh words, and they will both have regrets – and she will turn away, and he will turn to leave. It will twist their connection into something ugly and wrong…and broken beyond repair.

"Stiles don't…not now…not after…"

He stops millimeters away from her lips. "Lydia, I—"

She is so bound by love for him that his eyes practically hypnotize her. She knows he can easily convince her to let him kiss her, so she can't let him speak.

"Don't you understand? It can't be like this. It hurts to have you touch me right now. It hurts to have you even look at me."

"But we can't leave it this way. We have to—"

Somehow, Lydia finds the inner strength to pry herself from his arms, dashing all of his warmth in one fell movement. It feels terrible. She wants to crawl back inside, but one more burst of anger at the entire situation keeps her from doing so. On instinct, she lashes out one more time.

"No. Just go…just get out of here. Get out!" She is straining to shout. The words come out in sobs instead.

Stiles moves away from her, rubbing his forehead with a shaking hand as his lips tremble against his teeth. Lydia covers her mouth with her fist and lets out a cry so guttural and so afflicted with pain that it slashes directly through his soul.

He turns to leave. He is always leaving. He wants to stay, but he can't stand being the one who is making her cry. As he crosses the room, he spots his sweatshirt on the floor near her bed and he is not sure why, but he doesn't take it with him.

She turns away. She is always turning away. She told him to get out, but she can't watch him leave. She knows that when he goes, he is taking what is left of her heart right along with him.

Stiles opens the door and hesitates in the threshold. There is no trace of anger, only sadness in his voice when he says one last thing to her. "Why do we keep hurting each other, when we love each other so much?"

Just as Lydia hears the door close behind him, she spots his baseball from the corner of her eye. She hastily reaches for it and throws it across the room where it bounces and lands next to his faded red sweatshirt. Then, she drops onto the window seat and cries uncontrollably, with her head resting on her knees and the burden of all the loss she has been carrying pressing down on her shoulders.

* * *

Stiles is restless from the minute he walks out the door. He sits in his Jeep with the window rolled down. He can hear Lydia sobbing. The sound she makes is visceral and acutely heartbreaking. For twenty minutes, he debates whether or not to go back inside to talk to her. He gets out of the truck and climbs in again. He is waiting for her to stop crying, all the while tapping his thumb on the steering wheel and fidgeting in the seat.

He can't erase the knowledge that he did this to her. _She loves him_. She has for a while…and he hurt her because he was too insecure and guilt-ridden to believe it. It's killing him to stay away…not to go to her, with what is left of his heart in his hands and beg her forgiveness. But that would be selfish. It would be to ease his suffering, not hers. She needs space from him right now. If he goes back, he will only make things worse. If he has any chance of getting through to her, it won't be now. He chastises himself for claiming to know her so well, while being oblivious to the simple message she was trying to communicate through actions that were more meaningful than words.

He puts the key in the ignition, starts the Jeep, and slowly pulls away from the curb with tears still clinging to his eyes and a gaping chasm in his chest. It's then that he realizes, his heart is already gone – it's with Lydia. He gave it to her nine years ago in a darkened theater, and it has been with her ever since.

After she hears the Jeep pull away, Lydia slams the window shut. She is not sure why, but she doesn't lock it. For the next few minutes, she vacantly watches the changing patterns of light on her walls as the sun continues to set. From the corner of her eye, she notices that Prada has finally crawled out from her shelter under the bed to curl up on the sweatshirt Stiles left behind. The sight sharpens the pain in Lydia's chest.

* * *

Stiles is standing on the porch of the McCall home. He doesn't remember deciding to go there or the drive over. With shaking hands, he fumbles for a key, lets himself into the house, and quietly closes the door behind him. He ascends the stairs and steps into Scott's bedroom.

His best friend immediately moves to stand at his side. "Oh no…" he says with dismay. "Stiles, what happened?" he asks, voice laced with nothing but concern and sympathy.

"Lydia loves me. Scott, she loves me like I love her, and I fucked everything up," he answers, kneading his knuckles against the vacant space in his chest and staring blankly ahead.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Stiles collapses into Scott's arms. He lies on the floor with his head against his friend's lap, lost and filled with despair…unable to cry.

Scott doesn't say a word, just holds Stiles tightly, rubs his back and shoulders, listens to everything he has to say – the same as he did the night Claudia Stilinski died.

Stiles tells Scott everything; explains every awful thing, every mistake and misunderstanding, every way he hurt Lydia.

When he quiets, Scott speaks up, tells him no one is to blame, tells him everything will be alright, tells him Allison's last words – that she still loved him, always would. He reminds him that love like that – _true love_ – the kind that he had with Allison, the kind that Stiles has with Lydia – _love that strong_ can survive anything.

The boys sit in silence for a while. Scott thinks of Allison, and Stiles thinks of Lydia, hating himself for having a best friend to comfort him when she is left heartbroken and alone _again_ …because of him.

* * *

A while later, Lydia timidly walks over to where she aimed the baseball. She picks up the relic, along with Prada and the sweatshirt, squeezing them all tightly to her chest. She sets Prada on her bed and walks over to her desk, placing the baseball exactly where it had been before she disturbed it. She carefully unclasps her necklace and deposits it on her nightstand. Once she lets down her hair from her topknot, she removes her black sweater, bra, and leggings, and trades them for a blue lace camisole and grey full-length pajama pants. She has the chills, so she wraps herself up in the sweatshirt and shoves her hands into the pockets. Her right hand is greeted by a small piece of paper and her heart stops.

She frees the token from its hiding place – the face of it marked: _For Lydia_. She holds it for a moment, then slowly unfolds it and reads the letters printed in a familiar hand.

 _I miss you._

 _I love you._

 _I can't live without you anymore._

It is dated April 25 – yesterday. She lets out a gasp, holding the note to her chest; precious fragment pressed against the void beneath her ribs. Her tears resume at the beautiful simplicity of his words and the emotion behind them. She wishes she had read them a few hours ago. It might have changed everything. Stiles is gone again…gone this time because she told him to leave, and Lydia fears he may never come back.


	10. Surrender

**Five Hours Later:** April 27

At 1:29 AM Lydia is still wide awake, staring into the hollow darkness with a stream of tears running back into her hair…and pooling in her ears…and trickling onto the pillowcase. It has been the same every night since the funeral, but now there is an added layer of remorse. She is regretting every harsh word and every time she rejected Stiles's touch during the previous afternoon. The blinding anger that consumed her has faded, and it has been replaced by an expansive empty sensation in her chest. Her body, which was so tense as they argued, now feels numb. She is missing Stiles. Picturing his face – gold-flecked eyes, upturned nose, and crooked smile. Longing for the sound of his voice – his whispers, his laughter, even his sarcastic tone. Aching for his hands on her – callused fingertips, bitten-down nails, and all. She is wearing the sweatshirt he left behind. It smells like him – like Stiles and comfort, but it's not him. She has her arms wrapped around herself, but she wants it to be _his_ arms around her. She is lying on the right side of her big empty bed – _his side_ – wishing he were next to her to chase the chill from her cold sheets with his presence and warm her heart with his eyes…and his lips…and his hands. She wants him back. She wants him to make her feel alive again.

She waits, and in the midst of all the despair, the sound of the window sliding open awakens a kaleidoscope of butterflies in her stomach – and it gives her hope.

At 1:31 AM Stiles climbs through the bedroom window. Somehow, he knew it would be unlocked. He looks across the darkness. He can't see her face clearly, but he knows Lydia is crying. She looks so small and fragile, but she isn't – she is stronger than anyone he knows. The distant glow of the moon is highlighting her strawberry-blonde hair, which is spread about her pillow like a sea of auburn waves. It is making her already perfect complexion shine with an opalescent glow. She is beyond beautiful. She looks like an angel, and he loves her so much that his eyes fill with tears. She is wearing his sweatshirt. He wishes it were his arms wrapped around her instead, but now he knows why he had to leave it behind – _for Lydia_ , and it gives him hope. He knows if he could just hold her, then his heart will quicken, he will be able to breathe, and the emptiness will fade. He wants her back. He wants her to make him feel alive again.

He crosses the room to stand alongside the bed and reaches for the lamp. Lydia lifts her arm and tugs at his sleeve; she is not ready to face him in the light.

"I didn't wake you," he says.

It's not a question. He knows she hasn't been able to sleep through the night in a long time. He guesses that the nightmares and flashbacks that started after Allison died have continued, they may have even progressed. He is irritated with himself because he wouldn't have to guess if he had been there for her…like he promised. He hates himself for unnecessarily leaving her with no one to console her when she woke up gasping and terrified. She had wanted him to be there all along, and he wasn't. He failed her, and she deserved better.

"No, you didn't," she answers quietly.

Her voice is strained from an afternoon of crying and raised voices, but she sounds more like Lydia again. The tugging in his chest stirs, and Stiles knows he can't let her drift away from him. He will do anything to keep her close, so wherever Lydia goes – this time, he is going with her.

She doesn't look at him, just keeps staring at the ceiling. With his back to the window it is too dark to see his face anyway. Regardless, she knows he is crying. She can tell because his voice is thick and hoarse, and she can hear him chewing on his lip. A single warm droplet lands in Lydia's palm, and she closes her hand tightly around it. Her fingernails dig into her skin, but she squeezes tighter, trying to keep the watery gem within her grasp. She can feel Stiles looking down at her and imagines his saturated lashes and soulful brown eyes tinted with red. He is crying, and it's because of her. She did this to him. She let him think she didn't love him. She covers her face with her hands, letting his tear mix with her own. As soon as he sits next to her on the bed, she can feel his warmth penetrating directly through her clothing.

"Lydia, please don't hide from me. I can take just about anything…but not that."

Stiles takes hold of her wrists and gently pulls her hands aside. He tenderly touches her cheek before leaning down to slide his arms underneath her back. Lydia tenses but he continues, carefully lifting her until she is sitting upright, leaving his sweatshirt to fall behind her. She lets him – because she can't bear another minute without him touching her. For weeks, the throbbing ache to be with him has been unrelenting and the contact is like a tonic. He keeps his hands on the small of her back, long fingers splayed across every inch of her and the heat of his palms passing through the lightweight fabric of her camisole. She relaxes slightly, yet she still can't find the courage to look at him.

"Come on," he coaxes. He sounds more like Stiles this time; voice soft and sweet, but still colored with sadness. "We have to talk. I can't stand this, and I don't think you can either."

He moves his right hand to brush aside strands of hair that have been adhered to her face by a steady onslaught of tears. She finally lifts her eyes to him when he smooths the entire length of her mane with his palm, stopping to catch the end of one of her waves in his fist. With his back no longer to the window, the light of the moon has carved Stiles out of the darkness. Now, Lydia can see his tears. She can see the anguish on his beautifully angled face, and it spears her heart because she is the cause of it. All she had to do was tell him, but she let fear reduce her to silence. She thinks she truly must be broken on the inside, wicked to the core. She has to be, if she was unable to tell someone as remarkable as Stiles what he means to her. She assumed, and she was wrong. She expected him to _figure it out_ and take the next step. She failed him, and he deserved better.

Bracing herself before the fall, Lydia clutches at his upper arms, digging her fingers into his muscles as if their sole purpose is to support her, like railings on a treacherous stairway. "You came back," she gasps. "You came back."

"I'll always come back to you," he promises earnestly as his lips lightly brush along her forehead. " _Always_ ," he repeats, pressing his mouth firmly against her skull, like he is permanently branding the sentiment into her mind.

She crumbles into him. "Stiles, I'm sorry…I'm so sorry. I wanted to tell you…I tried…so many times…but I was too scared, and the words wouldn't come out." Unrestrained sobs cut through each syllable as her lungs search for air.

"I wanted to tell you too…but I thought you already knew, and I didn't want to pressure you," he explains, looking into her eyes. "I was afraid I would ruin everything we built."

"I didn't mean for it to come out the way that it did. I wanted it to be special." She clamps her eyes shut and swallows with difficulty, "If it was too late, I'll understand but please, _please_ stay with me…be my friend at least. I need you in my life."

"Lydia, open your eyes."

She slowly complies, shivering as she awaits his response.

"It doesn't matter how you said it. All that matters to me is that you feel it. And it wasn't too late…it's _not_ too late. I _never_ stopped, and I _never_ will." He cups her face with both hands bringing her close enough that her breath wafts across his skin. "I love you," he tells her, radiating certainty and pure affection.

She lets out a whimper and stretches her arms around him, dipping her face into the crook of his neck, gripping at his flannel, and squeezing him with all of her strength. She needs every inch of his ribs connecting with hers; planes of his broad expanse fitting around her narrow, undulating curves in a way that gives her tangible evidence of their connection. She can feel it – they have been cast from opposite sides of the very same mold, only made whole and complete when paired together. It's been too long without this sensation and she has been craving it. He returns the embrace with equal passion, and it feels like home to her.

Stiles lets his body collide with Lydia's, dropping his head down and peppering a series of light kisses along the curve of her shoulder. He is letting go of tears in a way that he had not been able to do earlier – without restraint. The release is driven by a combination of relief and ecstasy; relief that she didn't push him away and ecstasy from the satisfaction that comes with holding her. He feels her quick abbreviated breaths ghosting over the skin of his neck as her petite, yet powerful composition of flesh, and bone, and sinew compresses against him. It's been too long, and he is addicted to her. Lydia's embrace is intensely consuming, and it feels like home to him.

She inhales deeply for the first time since…before he left. She fills her lungs with him and holds her breath until her insides are screaming for release. The emptiness is beginning to fade from her chest.

He expels a flurry of words with his exhale, before he forgets how to speak in her presence. His statements are hurried. Later on, he wants to kick himself for their lack of eloquence, but the words are plain and honest, and his message is clear.

"I shouldn't have left. I don't know how it all got so mixed up... All I ever wanted was to make things okay for you. I can't stand to see you suffering. I didn't care what happened to me – I only wanted to protect you, but every day without you was worse than the last. I missed you _so damn much_. Being apart from you hurt more than dying. I should know – I've done both."

Lydia can feel his tears collecting on her shoulder and flowing like a river down her back. They are leaving a trail of cool moisture on her skin, washing away any residual anger and hurt that may have been hanging on since their argument.

He continues, "The whole time, I wanted to be with you, to get back to where we were. You said I stopped looking at you…and you were right. I did. I did because it hurt too much – to look at you and not be able to touch you. I stopped looking, but it didn't help because I never stopped seeing you. You were always there…everywhere…I saw you…even when my eyes were closed, Lydia. When we ran into each other at Scott's…I wasn't even sure if you were real at first, and you were wearing that blue dress, and you were so gorgeous that I couldn't even find the words. I was so pissed at myself for not being able to talk to you. Then, the other day, when I finally let myself look at you again and…you smiled at me, I knew…I knew I couldn't stay away any longer. I needed to see you so badly, and I came here because I wanted to tell you…I wanted to tell you what you are to me…but there was so much to say that I didn't know where to start…and then all the words…they just came out wrong…and I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I need you…I need you to forgive me."

"Stiles, it's my fault…for letting you be unsure…for letting you think that you weren't enough…when the truth is…you are so much more than I deserve."

He shakes his head against Lydia's neck before he pulls back to look at her. "Don't say that – not to me. It's not true," he says with resolve.

"But I made things so difficult. I held back, even though you've always given me everything. I should have realized you were trying to protect me. I was so hurt, and I wasn't thinking…but you have always put me first and tried to keep me safe. I haven't forgotten all of the times…like when you nearly broke your hand trying to get to me when Jennifer…when the Darach had me, or when you shielded me from all of those ravens – you didn't even hesitate, and long before that…when Peter attacked me on the lacrosse field…"

His expression shifts to one of bewilderment, and Lydia gets the confirmation she is looking for – proof of something that, deep down, she always knew to be true.

"How did you know I was there?" Stiles asks with shock.

"I didn't know for sure…until now. I heard your voice that night. I couldn't see you, but I heard you. You said… _I'm not just letting you leave her here_. You said… _Just kill me_. For a long time, I didn't think it was real. I couldn't imagine anyone being so willing to sacrifice himself for me, but the more time we spent together…the more possible it seemed…and the more it scared me – the things you are willing to do for me. I never want anyone to get hurt because of me…especially you, but then yesterday I hurt you with the awful things I said. I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about it. I said things I regret too."

"No, listen. I need to say this. You've always been there for me and you've only ever been good to me…and I should never have compared you to Jackson. You are _nothing_ like him. He wasn't the person I went to when I was scared or lost. He never made me feel safe and loved. He didn't make me laugh or make the breath catch in my throat. He never understood me…never even tried to. He liked thinking I was oblivious because it made him feel superior. He would have never done anything brave or selfless for me…and you always have. Stiles, you aren't like anyone else, and I should have told you a long time ago how important you are to me. You show me over and over that I matter to you – and you have changed my life."

Stiles reaches into his pocket for a tissue, then gently blots Lydia's tears before pulling her into his chest. "Aww, Lyds…come here," he soothes.

She rakes her nails up and down his sides, desperate for the sensation of his body against her fingertips – for physical assurance that he is real and actually in her arms. He squeezes her even more tightly this time, yet the pressure doesn't hurt, it heals – Stiles is fusing her together again.

"It's alright," he tells her, speaking softly with his face pressed to her cheekbone.

"No, it isn't. I hurt you. I _hate_ that I did that."

"I understand though. You were upset, and you were right to be. I shouldn't have assumed and then decided for us both. I should have at least waited until morning, talked to you more, made sure. We are supposed to handle things together. I hate that I hurt you too... It breaks my heart to know that you needed me, and I wasn't there for you." He kisses her cheek repeatedly while gently strumming on her spine with his thumb.

"Stiles, do you have any idea how much I missed you…how much I need you? It can't be good."

"What do you mean?"

Lydia loosens her hold on him and leans back. She needs to look in his eyes when she says this. It is still dark in the room, but she can make out a few mesmerizing flecks of gold in his irises. They are exactly as she remembers, and they give her the courage to continue.

"I was already afraid that something would happen to you…just like Allison…you know – in a split second…because of me. When you were gone, it was worse than I feared. I was devastated…and if you leave again..."

"Lydia, I'm right here and I'm not leaving you."

She shakes her head and glances downwards. "Maybe you think that now, but…"

He touches her face to bring her back to him. "Listen to me. Okay? You are literally going to have to _push_ me out the door if you ever want to get rid of me. It wasn't what I wanted. I wouldn't have left if I wasn't so stupidly convinced that it was the only way to help you."

"Why would you ever think that being away from you would help me?" she questions, smoothing her hands over the front of his shirt. "Stiles, please tell me. If I did something to make you think that... I need to know."

"I…because…every time we got close…there was so much pain and fear in your eyes."

"But there's something else. What aren't you telling me?"

"I thought you were asking me to go that night."

"What? When?" she asks hurriedly, clutching at his shirt.

"When we were in your bed."

"That's not... I was trying to tell you how I feel about you, not—"

He brings her left hand to his lips and kisses her palm, then holds it up to his jaw as he speaks. "I know that now, but when you told me how much you were hurting and how scared you were…and that it was getting worse...I thought you meant it hurt too much to be around me, that it hurt you to see me."

"I only meant that I was too scared to tell you. I know I did an awful job of trying to explain it, but I don't understand why you took it that way. Why would seeing you hurt me?"

Stiles rather abruptly shifts off the bed and kneels on the floor in front of her. He reaches for the lamp, and this time Lydia doesn't stop him. She simply watches him and swings her legs over the side of the mattress to follow his movement. He tilts closer still, settling his body between her legs as he grips at her hips, towing her towards him without even thinking about how forward he is being. He feels her shudder against him but disregards it because he needs to make her understand.

"Because of what he did to you."

She looks at him blankly.

"The Nogitsune…he abducted you, cornered you, he…put his hands on you – and he…and he had _my face_ when he did it. I didn't want you to have to remember…every time you looked at me. I thought you were afraid of me. That week, I kept catching glimpses of how scared you were. We were getting closer and your flashbacks were getting worse…and I felt how you shuddered when I touched you…you're doing it right now...and you kept telling me that you didn't blame me, but I thought that you just didn't want to hurt my feelings."

Lydia reaches for his shoulders to keep from quivering. His eyes are pleading with her. Even in the dim light of her crystal lamp, she can make out the emotion they convey. He is racked with guilt and shame, and he is begging for absolution that only she can give him. "Oh my god, that's what you…Stiles…no."

His chest is heaving with the weight he has been carrying. Lydia is sure he must be unaware of how firmly he is pressing into her hips. She shifts closer to appease him and lifts her hands to his face. He closes his eyes, but she needs him to stay with her.

"Stiles, look at me. Shh, look at me. Shh, Stiles."

When he meets her gaze, she speaks softly to him. "The fear and the pain you saw…they were real. I can't deny that – but it wasn't because of what you thought. I was afraid because of how open and vulnerable I feel when I'm with you. It's like…it's like you can see right inside of me, and it's _intense_ …and kind of intimidating, but at the same time it makes me feel significant and alive. The pain came from a lot of things…from missing Allison, from the guilt I have for not being able to save her, for falling deeper and deeper for you at the same time that I was grieving for her, and mostly for not being able to tell you how I felt because…I was so sure that I would lose you if I did. And when I shudder, it's only because I want you so much."

She gingerly caresses his jaw as she continues. "I could never be afraid of you. The only thing that scares me is how out-of-control in love with you I am. I never thought I could feel this way about anyone – but I can't help it with you. The more scared I am, the more I want to ignore it and be with you anyway because I trust you…and…"

Lydia pauses to kiss the crease in his brow. When he relaxes under her lips, she arches back to make eye contact.

"…and Stiles, it's _really_ important that you hear this... _H_ _e never looked like you_ – not to me. He was angry, and twisted, and threatening…and his eyes were dark and lifeless. But you… _you_ are kind, and warm, and loving, and there is so much light in your eyes. When I look at you, all I see is the good that's inside you. Stiles, there is so much good in here," she affirms, pointing to his heart. "You are the best person I've ever known, and he _never_ looked like you to me. Not even for one second."

His breaths are short and labored. His eyes well up, then spill over as he blinks. "But the things I did… I let the darkness in…and it set everything else in motion. How can I even begin to ask for forgiveness that I don't deserve?"

She wipes his tears with her hands and presses her lips to his cheek for an extended moment. "You did it because you had no choice…Scott told me."

"But I helped her, and I hurt everyone I love."

"You couldn't have predicted what would happen. I know you. If there is anything you can do to prevent someone else from suffering, you always do it. It's one of the things I love about you…and…if it's forgiveness you need, then you can have mine. I forgive you, Stiles. No one deserves to be forgiven more than you. You've only ever tried to do the right thing for everyone."

The tension leaves him. His breaths have evened out, and he calms a little more with every loving word and every soothing touch she offers. His expression is awestruck and grateful when he asks, "How did you do that? You always do that."

Lydia tilts her head, waiting for him to elaborate.

"You calm me…even though I'm nervous just being this close to you…you steady me."

"I don't know..." she smiles, "maybe it's not me…maybe love does that."

Lydia leans closer to Stiles, until her forehead is resting on his. They are so close, breathing the same air again… _finally,_ and the room is so quiet that the rest of the world begins to fade away. His thumbs are tracing circles on her hips, and it feels like he is saying he loves her. Her eyelashes are tapping against his cheekbones, and it feels like she is saying she loves him.

"I got your note," she begins.

"You did?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad."

"Stiles?"

"Mmm…"

"I need you to know… I missed you, and I love you, and I can't live without you anymore either."

He sighs and holds her tighter. Somehow, there is still too much space between them, and he wants to eliminate it. He doesn't have to say a word for Lydia to understand.

"Stiles…" she breathes, "you can kiss me. _Please, kiss me_."

His eyebrows arch against her forehead, but it takes barely a second for his lips to capture hers. They have both been waiting for this and neither can deny the anchoring pull they feel towards each other.

Kissing Stiles is even better than she remembered. He is gentle at first, but intensity blossoms as she responds to his lips. He tastes like spearmint, and sugar, and Stiles. When he runs his tongue along the inside of her bottom lip and moans into her mouth, she feels dizzy with the bliss of a thousand summers under the stars. His heart is thumping so furiously against hers, that she can't tell one beat from the other. _This is how it's supposed to feel._

Kissing Lydia is even better than he remembered. Her lips are soft and glide over his with a sense of urgency. She tastes like vanilla, and honey, and Lydia. When she wraps her legs around his torso, he is glad to already be firmly kneeling on the ground because he feels weak at the thought of her beneath him. Her heart is pounding so rapidly against his, that their beats sync up. _This is how it's supposed to feel._

The fire accelerates quickly. She pushes navy and red plaid over his shoulders, while his fingertips search for silky skin that is veiled only by the thin lace of her camisole. She clutches the collar of his tee shirt, dragging him along with her as she leans back. His right hand immediately shifts to cradle her head as he lowers her onto the bed. He is kissing her neck and she is gliding her hands up and down his spine; dainty cream-colored digits cloaked under dark cotton.

Time seems to slow down and speed up simultaneously. Stiles only comes up for a breath when his lungs start to burn. Cool air hits his face and his exhale travels across Lydia's ear, making her tremble. He pushes off from the bed, so he can look at her. Her emerald eyes are soft and innocent in a way he has never seen. They are likewise brimming with desire, and his chest floods with warmth when he realizes it's for him. Her fair complexion is shaded to a perfect hue of blush, and her bottom lip is tucked into her mouth as she blinks inquisitively up at him. Lydia looks like heaven reached down to touch the face of the earth.

She can read the emotion and desire in his face too – constellation of moles backlit by flushed cheeks, eyes deep and dripping with love for her, mouth slightly swollen from kissing her. His hair is messy from the way she laced her fingers into it, and he is poking at his bottom lip with his tongue in that way he does that makes her insides melt. Stiles is beautiful, and he is looking, _really looking_ at her again, and it feels like heaven on earth.

He stares for a minute. Her stomach is bare under his right palm; jagged pink wound across her left side partially concealed by his fingers. It reminds him that he isn't being completely forthcoming with her…just like the night she got that scar. He remembers that Lydia turned away from him, slipped through his fingers because she didn't know the whole truth about the world she was living in. The secrets he helped keep left her vulnerable to Peter. If he had made her aware, he could have saved her so much suffering. It felt wrong then and it feels wrong now. He can't be the cause of anymore pain for her, so he needs to tell her everything.

"What's wrong?" she asks breathlessly, already missing the contact between them. She massages his shoulders and laces her hands around his neck, attempting to bring Stiles closer.

"Lydia, wait." He shakes his head and rubs at his temples quickly. "I _cannot_ believe I'm saying this but…we can't yet…"

"Oh. I… It's okay. We can stop…if you don't want—"

He touches her lips to stop her. "No…no…no…I _want_ to. I _definitely_ want to…but there's still a lot we need to sort out. I think we should do that first. I _need_ this to be right, I need you to know everything before…to make sure this is still what you want. I don't want you to regret anything."

She kisses his index finger, which is still hovering over her lips. "How could I regret being with you when I love you so much?" she questions, playfully taming his hair with her fingertips.

Lydia surprises herself at how easily the words escape her mouth. She is so smitten that it didn't even occur to her to withhold them this time. It feels natural and right, and she is watching his expression change with every syllable.

Stiles has wanted to hear Lydia say she loved him for so long, and the ease with which she said the words turns his insides to molten lava. He bows his head and plants a kiss on her collarbone, lingering briefly before pulling back. He almost regrets saying anything, but he knows he had to; leaving her in the dark again would only hurt her more.

"The thing is… There's something you should know – about before…and I feel like until you do, there is going to be this space between us, and I don't want that."

She is changing shape before him. Her eyes emitting a mix of understanding and disappointment, uncertainty and patience, dotted with a trace of fear that he wishes he hadn't put there.

"When you say before…do you mean in this past month…or before like…when you were in Eichen House?" she asks hesitantly.

"Eichen House."

"Okay…"

"First, could you just… I need you to remember…remember I love you, and I _always_ have. Can you do that for me?"

She nods in agreement, though her anxiety level spikes. She closes her eyes and stretches up to kiss Stiles on the forehead, hoping to reassure them both. Lightly caressing the nape of his neck, Lydia waits for him. She can feel his fingertips pressed to the skin along her ribs, skimming across the scar that Peter so callously emblazoned there. It is strange to have any sensation in that spot, let alone twice within the span of less than one day. In the afternoon it hurt, but with Stiles's hands on it – hands that would never hurt her – it feels warm and tingly. Lydia is lost in thought when she notices him start to lean in for another kiss. The heat builds in her stomach as his lips find hers once more. It's different from moments ago. He applies the lightest amount of pressure, but still it makes electricity spread all over her body. She is amazed at how much she feels from even the slightest contact between them. When he breaks away, it is a few more moments until she is able to collect herself enough to speak.

"We should probably sit up," she suggests, tightening her grip on his shoulder.

"Yeah…uh…right," he agrees.

Stiles reluctantly untangles his body from Lydia's, pulling her with him as he switches to a seated position. She isn't ready to relinquish contact, so she faces him and slides forward until their knees and shins are touching. He wants more contact as well, so he takes her hands in his. Her skin is smooth, palms warm, fingertips cool. He spots a few freckles across her knuckles that he hasn't noticed before and takes his time admiring them. He notices the way her hands fit inside his, and a half-smile touches his lips at the sight of it. He wishes that protecting her could be as easy as covering her hands with his.

Lydia laces her dainty fingers with his warm and slightly rough ones, her little gold ring pressing against his knuckles for the first time in weeks. She considers the time Stiles spends working with his hands. He is always fixing something…broken electronics, Scott's motorcycle, the Jeep. Use has left them a bit worse for the wear, but she finds it comforting to know she could recognize Stiles by his hands alone. She notices the way his long digits fit between hers and how they reach all the way to her wrist. She enjoys the sight of it. The way he is wrapped around her makes her feel safe and protected. She returns his smile, hoping that he feels the same way.

They sit quietly for a while, mesmerized by the fact that they are finally touching each other after such a prolonged separation. Eventually, Stiles is ready to proceed. He pushes the air out from his lungs, and it passes across Lydia's face. She closes her eyes quickly, then re-opens them when she hears his voice.

"There's really no easy way for me to say this…but the last night I was there…something happened between me and…"

He can't say the name in Lydia's presence…in _her_ room…the place where she is supposed to feel safe. It seems like irreverence. He lowers his head with guilt. He thinks she already knows what he is about to say, but nonetheless is seized by a pressing need to confess his mistake. It was never supposed to happen this way.

Lydia can't hear her name – not in this room. It's _their_ space, and she isn't willing to share it with anyone else. Involuntarily, she shifts away from Stiles. She thinks she knows what he is about to say and the thought of his hands on someone else makes her blood run cold. Years of practiced psychological defense kick into gear.

She instinctively relapses, trying to mold her voice so that it sounds casual and unaffected. She tilts her head to the side and shrugs one shoulder. "You know what? You don't have to tell me. It's none of my business."

He tightens his grip on her hands. "Please, don't do that."

She looks at him timidly and purses her lips. Deep down, she knew Stiles would see through her feeble attempt at avoidance, but she had to try. She isn't ready to have her suspicion confirmed, so she looks down at her lap.

"Hey... Look at me." He uses their joined hands to nudge her chin upwards until their eyes meet. "What we have…" he motions between their bodies, "this connection between us, I think it means as much to you as it does to me. I _really_ want it to work…but Lydia…if we are going to have any chance at all, you have to stop doing that."

"Doing what?" She practically pouts when she speaks. She knows exactly what he means, of course, but she is hoping to bide more time before the uncomfortable truth is revealed to her.

"Acting like you're indifferent the minute things get uncomfortable. Please don't tell me it's not your business...'cause if it isn't…then…that means we're not on the same page here. I _want_ it to be your business. I _want_ you to care."

"But, Stiles…"

"Lydia, _please_."

Stiles has his gaze fixed on her. She detects his apprehension in the way his right eye is slightly narrowed and by the fact that his top lip is twitching. He looks like he is preparing for the worst. Lydia is fully aware that her response will either lighten his burden or break his heart. It is not a difficult choice to make. She chooses the former and tells him the truth.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I _do_ care. It's just…I know it's hypocritical of me…and I don't have the right to be…jealous, but I am. Okay? I'm _insanely_ jealous, because I think the two of you…and I hate it. Maybe we need to get it out in the open, but at the same time…I don't want to hear you say that you were with her...or anyone else."

The words are cutting at her throat like little shards of glass, making her voice sharp and raspy. Pain and embarrassment cause unwanted tears to form in her eyes. Stiles releases her hands to take hold of her face, erasing the tears from her cheeks with gentle kisses that make her stomach flutter. She suddenly feels too warm and his mouth is burning her skin. She thinks her face must be covered in red marks that are shaped like his lips – lips that were on someone else.

"Lydia…"

"You were with her…weren't you?" She hiccups and holds her breath waiting for his answer.

"I…yeah."

She raises her eyes to the ceiling and bites her bottom lip. "What about after?"

He looks at her, arching his eyebrow. "After?"

"After you left…when I called you that night…and again the next day, she answered your phone."

Stiles closes his eyes and releases her face, dropping his hands to his lap as a few more pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place. "That's what you meant this afternoon… Isn't it? Aww, Lydia…I had no idea. She never said anything."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised that she answered your phone and didn't even bother to tell you…her social skills are _severely_ lacking," she says, rolling her eyes and folding her arms across her chest.

"Did you think that I—"

"Stiles…it was the middle of the night."

"And I had just left…and you didn't want me to go. Lydia, I'm _so_ sorry. It wasn't like that though. I mean…she sort of showed up in my room. I explained to her that nothing else was going to happen between us…and then…my dad came home and… _shit…shit_ …I left the phone behind."

He grabs Lydia's waist and drops his head to her shoulder for a moment. Then he remembers something else she said, and he springs back up.

"Wait, you said the next day too. I had my phone with me all day…except… When did you call me?"

"At lunch time."

 _"Fuck_ …except then. Danny…I was talking to Danny. He was asking about you because you weren't in school…and I left the phone on the table…she was sitting there." He puts his head down and runs his right palm across his forehead. "Oh my god, Lyds…I can't believe this. I checked for messages over and over…but it never occurred to me that she would answer the phone. Why the hell didn't I check my call log? I'm such an idiot," he utters with frustration.

Lydia presses her palms to his knees. "No, you aren't, and I messed up too. I should have tried harder to talk to you – in person. I wanted to but…"

"What stopped you?"

She remains silent, gripping his knees and tightly pursing her lips.

He covers her hands with his. "Hey, what is it?"

"I—I…" she stammers.

"It's alright. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

"I thought you didn't want me because of all the things I told you…things I've never felt safe enough or even wanted to tell anyone else. I thought you left because I was depending on you too much, and it made you realize you didn't love me…and I was so hurt…and everything else just fed into it…and I couldn't."

"Lydia," he begins, locking their fingers together. "Do you have any idea how happy it made me...every time you opened up to me? Every second we spent together…all the ways you let me in…every secret you told me – it all made me fall _more_ in love with you. There is nothing you could say to me that will change how I feel about you."

"But…"

"But what?"

"If you felt that way, then why _her_ …and why in _that place_?"

"I'm not sure I understand it myself."

She takes in a shaky breath and wets her lips. "We never really talked about when you were in Eichen House. Can you tell me what happened?"

"Some of my memories are kind of hazy, but I can try."

"Okay. What do you remember?"

"The first thing I remember is you. That doesn't surprise me though, it's pretty much how my brain works. You're like this bright spot that stands apart from everything else," he explains, quirking his mouth to one side.

Instantly, Lydia recalls what Stiles asked of her just moments earlier – _remember I love you_ – and the burning in her cheeks subsides. _He loves me._

"Stiles," she whispers, squeezing his hands and moving closer until their legs are touching again.

"I remember coming here to see you the night I checked in, how you smiled when I came in through the window, and how your expression changed when you saw how nervous I was. I hated telling you I was leaving...but I couldn't go without seeing you. I remember how you asked me to stay, and how much I wanted to do that – to just stay here, sit with you, talk to you, watch you read or sketch, have you fall asleep with your head on my shoulder like you started doing a few weeks before. Hell…I wouldn't have even minded doing homework…I didn't care, as long as I could be with you. But as much as I wanted all of those things, after what I did to Scott, I didn't trust myself anymore, so I knew I had to leave. When you started crying, it tore me up inside. That's when I realized…"

"Realized what?"

"That no matter what I do, I hurt you."

"Stiles, that's not true. You make my life so much better."

"You think that? Even after…"

"I know it," Lydia replies, pulling their hands into her lap. "What else do you remember?"

"The way you held onto me…it seemed like we were more than friends, and I remember wanting to kiss you _so badly."_

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I knew if I kissed you, I'd never be able to leave." He blinks rapidly as his eyes start to water. "I also remember promising to come back to you, and I remember what it felt like…when I could see in your eyes how much that mattered to you."

"It did matter. It still does." She brings their joined hands to her lips and kisses his knuckles.

Her words and touch give him strength. He closes his eyes, committing them to memory, then takes a breath. "I remember turning to leave, closing the window behind me, and thinking that I left part of myself in this room with you."

Lydia lets out a soft whimper. _He loves me_ , she thinks as she leans nearer, positioning her head at the center of his chest. His beats are quick and uneven as he smooths her hair and rests his cheek against her temple. The two remain motionless for a few minutes, holding onto each other in silence.

When Lydia speaks, her voice is soft, conveying nothing but understanding and patience. "Can you tell me more?"

"The next thing I remember is seeing Scott outside Eichen House, and how he tried to change my mind. It took everything I had to keep it together…to make him believe I was sure about what I was doing. I know he saw through it, but he never let on. I told him if Deaton and Chris couldn't find a way to help me, then I needed him to make sure I never got out."

"What? How could— Scott would _never_ do that," she insists, sitting up and looking into Stiles's eyes.

"I know. As messed up as I was, I think I knew it then too, but I had to try. It would have been awful though, to spend the rest of my life there…because inside that place…Lydia, inside was even worse than I expected. I remember sitting in an office with my dad, knowing how upset he was, hating that he was reliving what happened to my mom, worrying about him being alone, all the while trying not to show him how terrified I was. He told me, more than once, that I could still go home. He kept saying that I didn't bring my pillow…and that we should go back for it because I wouldn't be able to sleep."

"You never seem to miss that pillow when you're here," Lydia points out, struggling to lighten the heaviness in the air. She is surprised to find that it works.

Stiles gives her a small grin. A flash of gold ignites in his eyes when he winks at her in agreement. "It's the only time I don't," he admits, moving his hands to her wrists.

She offers a glimmer of a smile in return, glad of the fact that she can ease his suffering even by a small measure.

He looks down and gnaws on his lip before continuing. "As soon as I walked away from my dad, this feeling – this cold empty…dread took over, and when the nurse was taking me to my room, I saw…I saw this guy. He was on the stairs above…and he was saying something…I can't remember what…and he tied something to the railing, and then he just…jumped. Everyone kept calling it an accident, but it wasn't."

"Oh my god, Stiles. How awful."

"That wasn't even all of it. I saw the Nogitsune too…it kept appearing. By then, it was obvious I made the wrong choice, but it was too late to do anything about it because I wasn't allowed any phone calls. I didn't sleep at all that night."

"Neither did I."

"You didn't?" he asks, sliding his hands to Lydia's elbows.

"No. I couldn't stop thinking about you…wishing I had said more…something that would have convinced you to stay. When you were here, I wanted to tell you how I felt…but I was afraid you'd think that I only said it to keep you from leaving."

"I guess we were both pretty scared that night."

"Yeah," she confirms with a quiver in her voice. "What happened in the morning?"

"That was even worse. Morrell was a counselor there. She was leading group therapy, but she pulled me aside because she saw these marks on my neck. She called them…um…figures…something to do with lightning…"

"You mean Lichtenberg figures?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"I've read about them. They're remnants of high voltage electrical activity…usually they indicate some kind of equipment failure. They're shaped like branches," she says, tracing the veins on the inside of his left forearm with her finger. "Sometimes they also appear on people who have been struck by lightning."

He stares at her, shaking his head in awe. "Of course you know that. You are as smart as you are beautiful."

She looks away, trying not to smile. "Stiles…you were saying…"

"Uh…I can't think right now."

"Lichtenberg figures…" she coaxes, nudging his knee with hers.

"Oh…right," he concedes, mouth turning into a frown as his face grows solemn. "Morrell was cryptic…as usual…but she was pretty clear on a few points. First, that when the marks faded, it would mean the Nogitsune had control over me. Second, that the only way to keep that from happening was to stay awake…and third…here is the really fun part…she said, very calmly I might add…that if the Nogitsune did get control over me, she was going to kill me. She even told me how she would do it."

"Stiles," Lydia breathes with a gasp. Her brows cinch with pain at the thought of what he must have been going through – locked in a strange place, so afraid, with no one he could trust to help him.

"By that point…I just remember being exhausted and feeling completely trapped…like I was never going to get out of there…and that I had let everyone down. I hadn't slept in…I'm not even sure how long…and knowing that I shouldn't somehow made me even more tired. Plus, it was still going to be another two days before I could call anyone."

Stiles leaves his right hand on Lydia, his palm and fingers completely encircling her elbow as he nervously adjusts his grasp. He lifts his left arm to scratch at the back of his neck, then moves his hand to his mouth and begins chewing on the end of his fingernail.

Lydia's stomach clenches tightly in response to his visible anxiety. "Is this the part where she comes in?"

"Yeah, but before we get to that… Could I hold you?" His tone is laced with sadness and vulnerability.

There is a deep-seeded fear inside Stiles that tells him it might be the last time he gets to hold Lydia, that after she hears what happened she will lose whatever trust she had left in him, that she will tell him she can't be with him and ask him to leave.

The request tugs at Lydia's heart. To her, it is proof that even after one month apart, he is still _her Stiles_ – a best friend who immediately recognizes the hurt and conflict inside of her, someone who is sensitive to the fact that although she loves him, she might not want to be physically close in this moment – the moment when he is telling her that he was with someone else. It is proof that in spite of all the trauma he has experienced, Stiles is still the same boy she fell for – the one who respects her enough to ask permission, the one who consistently shows how intensely he values her by always offering her the choice to either accept or refuse his affection. _He loves me,_ she remembers for the third time. It makes her want to be held by him. It makes her love him more.

"Yes, you can. Please hold me."

Stiles shifts around, letting his legs extend over the side of the bed as he kicks off his sneakers. Lydia slides next to him, pressing close to his side as he wraps both arms around her. She turns her face inwards and deposits a tiny kiss on his neck before nestling her head on his shoulder. They sit in silence again, slowly breathing together, each taking comfort in the presence of the other.

Stiles speaks in a tentative voice; low and unassuming. "Is it totally inappropriate that I wanna kiss you right now?"

Lydia remains quiet. His right hand is flush against her ribs, holding her to his chest, his thumb mindlessly grazing back and forth along the side of her breast. She has been trying to ignore the sensation, but it is near impossible.

"Is it okay if I do?" he asks.

She wants to let him kiss her. _She_ does – but she feels unsure of whether it is the right time, so she hesitates. Turning to Stiles, she searches for the answer…and finds it. His expression is soft, patient, and as always, openly expressing his concern for her. A pair of dark eyes meet hers for an extended moment, and she sees it – she can see how deeply he feels for her. _He loves me_. The emotion on his face and the heat from his body chase away the ice in Lydia's veins at the thought of Malia's skin against his.

"Yes," she whispers with a nod.

Stiles waits. He gives Lydia the time to change her mind before gingerly tucking his index finger under her chin and tilting her face towards his. The room is noiseless and still as he dips down to meet her in an achingly tender kiss. Lydia sighs softly into his mouth as Stiles tightens his grip on her waist. She knows he wants to deepen the kiss, but his lips remain gentle and reverent. He shows her that he wants more, but also that he won't take it without her consent. Right now, this is enough for her. Lydia resists the temptation to give into her desire for him. She ever so lightly nips at his bottom lip with her teeth, pulls away, and returns her head to his shoulder.

When Lydia ends the kiss Stiles is disappointed, but he understands. It's reassuring that she allowed him so close when she could have just as easily refused. The way she nipped at his lip did not escape him either. It shows him that she was reluctant to part from him. He only hopes she can still feel that way after he explains what happened with Malia.

A flash of nerves rushes through his body as he prepares to speak. Lydia automatically senses his anxiety and reacts. She reaches for his hand and before Stiles can blink, her little gold ring is sandwiched between his knuckles, like it belongs there…and it does.

"Go ahead," she tells him.

"Okay. I remember that I ran into her a couple of times. The first time, she punched me in the face."

Lydia's head snaps up. "After you and Scott helped her!"

"Yeah," he says, brushing an errant strand of hair from her face. "The next time I saw her, she said we didn't help her, that we basically made a mess of her life, and she wanted to go back to being a coyote—"

"Well…maybe she _should_ if—"

"Lyds…focus."

She bites her lip, embarrassed at how quickly her jealousy has flared.

"Look, I know this isn't easy for you—"

"No, it isn't, but…it's not easy for you either. I'm sorry I interrupted," she apologizes. "I am listening though."

"It's okay. I know you are," he tells Lydia, spinning her ring between his fingers. "So anyway…I needed to get out of there. She said she would help me, if I could put her in contact with someone who could teach her how to shift. Things get really hazy after that. I remember that I pissed off this orderly, a guy named Brunski, because I was somewhere I wasn't supposed to be. When he caught me, it's possible I may have overdone it a bit with the…"

"Let me guess…sarcasm?"

"It's my only defense," he answers wryly.

"No, it isn't," she quickly corrects Stiles. "These are much better," she explains, pointing to his head and then to his heart.

He grasps Lydia's index finger, poking it into his chest. "At the time, _this_ was in pretty bad shape. I kept thinking about you. I remember missing you more than I ever thought I could miss someone. The marks were starting to fade…and the more they did, the further away you felt. I thought I was never going to see you or hear your voice again, never going to hold you, never going to be able to tell you all of the things I wanted to say. I felt sick that I made a promise to you and…I was going to have to break it because I was going to die in that place. I thought…even if by some miracle I did see you again, that I was too broken...too damaged…not good enough for you."

 _He loves me._ Lydia shakes her head and meets his gaze with wide-eyes and trembling lips. "You were in all of that pain, and you were worried about me? And you think you aren't good enough?" She asks in disbelief _._

Stiles pushes out a heavy breath. "On top of that, I was pretty sure I was losing my mind – I was seeing things that no one else saw, I thought I had the disease that killed my mother, and half of the time I wasn't sure whether I was awake or not. So, you know…I defaulted to sarcasm. Not my best work. Brunski is an ass, to put it mildly. He put me in solitary confinement…he called it the "Quiet Room"…I think. Then, he ordered his little minions to give me a sedative…even though I was already on amphetamines that Morrell gave me to help keep me awake."

Lydia's entire body goes rigid. She turns and throws her arms around Stiles in one swift movement. "Oh my god! That's so dangerous…so completely irresponsible of him! You aren't supposed to mix those – he could have killed you."

Stiles returns the embrace tightly, as both of them shudder with emotion. He holds onto Lydia as he continues, once again drawing strength from her touch. "I pleaded with him not to…I fought back…but he had me injected anyway…and I fell asleep. It was so fast. Things were even more unclear when I woke up. I didn't know how much time had passed, Mal—" he clears his throat, "she was standing over me when I opened my eyes. My head was in a fog, and I just wanted to get out, so I followed her out of the room. The next thing I remember…I was asking her to check for the marks, but they were gone, and I knew it was over…I was never getting out of there alive."

"You must have been terrified," Lydia says, soothingly rubbing his shoulders.

He nods and loosens his arms, guiding Lydia's body away from his, so he can look into her eyes. Even through anguish, they are piercingly beautiful – glistening deep green, speckled with light. Tears roll down his face as his voice strains over the next few statements. "I explained what the marks meant. She kissed me, and I let her. At first, I thought…we were just going to kiss for a while…but then..."

Lydia averts her eyes. "You wanted more."

"That's the thing… I'm not sure whether that was me…or the Nogitsune. It felt wrong because I didn't know her, but my head was…I'm not sure how to explain it…crowded…noisy. I didn't feel like I had control over anything. I knew it wasn't smart, but it almost didn't matter because it was like it was happening to someone else. I don't remember most of it… I don't even know if I…well…you know."

He is watching Lydia's lips tremble as he speaks, hating the fact that something he did is the cause.

"I didn't tell you this to hurt you or to make you doubt how I feel about you. It's the complete opposite of that – I don't want to have secrets between us, and I don't want you to hear this from someone else…or to think that it was anything more than a mistake. Do you understand?"

She nods and attempts to swallow the lump in her throat. "Do you…feel differently about her now? People say it changes things…especially when it's…"

"You mean because it was my first time?"

She answers with a shrug.

"Did it for you?" he asks.

"In some ways. It definitely changed how Jackson acted…and it changed how I responded to him. He got mean, and I let him get away with it. I felt like he had power over me, that I had to stay because I still cared about him…and if I broke up with him…it would look like I didn't."

"She and I didn't have a before…so I can't say that it changed how I feel about her. It wasn't anything like being close to you. There was no connection, just quiet…an escape from the noise."

"Like a distraction."

"Yeah. With her, it didn't feel real. When _we_ kiss Lydia, when I hold you, when you touch me…there are so many feelings – all this love – so much that I can't even put into words."

"You care about her though."

"She has been through a lot…and I mean…I feel kind of responsible because of what happened, so I think I should help her if I can—"

"Do you think it's possible that you are falling for her?"

"What?" he asks, eyebrows pinched with shock. "What would make you think that?"

"It's just…that week before the funeral, you tensed whenever someone said her name…and when I came back to school, she was always around you. I've seen the way she looks at you…and we've been apart for weeks. Maybe there is something else between you…now that you've gotten to know each other. I wouldn't blame you. I didn't expect that you would never want to be with anyone else, but you hardly knew her…and you're not like me when it comes to these things. You're better than I am."

"I don't understand."

"The summer after Jackson left, I dated a bit...never going out with any guy more than once…hardly telling them anything about me. I had sex with some of them and never thought of them again. They were a…distraction from everything that was going on – from all of the things I had to face when I found out that this whole other insane supernatural world existed…from the fact that I was a part of it by no choice of my own…and from how disappointed I was in myself for letting Jackson treat me the way he did. At the time, I thought would make it easier to separate sex from spending time with someone I had feelings for, but I was wrong. It only made me feel empty. I had to learn that the hard way, but I'm pretty sure you are smart enough to have figured that out for yourself. I guess, I always thought you would want some kind of connection before you took that step. So, now I'm worried that...maybe there was more to what happened between the two of you."

"Lydia, there is nothing more to it and there never will be. It was a mistake. I tensed when I heard her name because I felt awkward about what happened. You and I…we were _so close_ …so close that I feel…like I have been unfaithful to you. Maybe that sounds ridiculous, but it's the truth. It felt wrong to keep it from you…but there was so much happening all at once, I didn't know when or how to tell you. I was worried about what your reaction might be – part of me was afraid you'd be hurt and angry, that you would think I betrayed you, but another part of me was afraid…that you wouldn't care at all. And yeah, I've gotten to know her a little…"

Stiles caresses Lydia's cheek and waits for her to look at him.

"…but she doesn't make my heart beat faster or give me butterflies. I don't miss her when she's not around. I couldn't talk to her for hours without running out of things to say or sit in silence with her and still be completely comfortable. I don't ache to hold her or dream about kissing her. I don't want to wake up next to her in the morning and fall asleep with her in my arms at night. I'm not in love with her, not even a little bit. You're right about me wanting to be with someone that I have a connection with and, Lydia…that person is you. I'm in love with you… _just you_ …and the way I feel about you – I could never feel this for anyone else."

 _He loves me._ She starts to cry, her tears pooling into warm palms that cradle her face and discourage her instinct to break eye contact.

"Lydia, I was lost without you. I get it if you're angry with me, but _please_ don't hate me."

"I could never hate you… _never_. I'm upset…but not at you…just at the entire situation. I _hate_ that it happened. I _hate_ thinking that you were in that awful place, that you were scared and vulnerable, and you were with a stranger, there wasn't…someone who cares for you – it wasn't me who was there for you, looking out for you…like you have always done for me."

"I wish I had listened to you. I never should have gone there. It only made things worse…but after what I did to Scott, I didn't know what to do. I was so afraid I would hurt someone else. What if I had hurt you? You can't heal like Scott can, if I had done something to you I—I can't even think about it."

"I know," she says, clinging to the sides of his tee shirt with clenched fists, "but none of this is your fault."

"It feels like it is."

"I know that too, and I'm sorry that you went through so much. What happened to me wasn't exactly the same, but I think I understand how you feel. I can't forget the things I did, the people I hurt…when Peter…when he had control over me. It's awful, and isn't fair, and it affected us – maybe in ways we don't even comprehend yet…but it's not _all_ we are. We can't let it be." She touches his face. "Do you think you could do something for me?"

"Anything."

"Could you try to forgive yourself? I realize it's not going to be easy…and I should probably take my own advice, but…Stiles, all of this guilt…it's going to destroy us if we let it, and I don't want that."

"I don't want that either. I'll try if you will. We can help each other…I mean, if you…if you still want to be with me."

"Of course, I do – more than anything."

"Really?"

"Yes. You chose to tell me what happened, and you said that it was a mistake. I believe you."

He sighs with relief. Leaning close, he presses his lips fervently against hers, then stretches up to kiss her forehead. She relaxes into him. He is sweet, like raw honey, soothing away all bitterness and insecurities from her soul.

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you explained everything because it made something really clear to me."

"What's that?" he questions, touching his nose to hers.

"A lot goes wrong when we aren't together, so we have to do something about that. We have to move past this because…I don't want her or anyone else getting between us."

"No one is going to come between us, Lyds. There is no room in my heart for any girl but you. As muddled as some of my memories are…all of the ones I have about you are clear. I remember wanting to be here… _with you_. I remember trying to get out of that place for you…and how hopeless I felt when I thought I was never going to see you again. The night I checked into Eichen, I meant it when I said I would come back to you, and I have never regretted making that promise. My heart was already yours. We had spent so much time together, and I loved every minute of it. We got to a point where we really knew and understood each other. Sometimes, we didn't even need words. I swear there were moments when I felt like we were a couple, even though we never talked about it."

"I felt it too."

"Lydia, you are so many things to me. You were the first girl I ever danced with…hell, I can go back a lot further than that…you were the first girl I ever even noticed. We were just eight years old, but I couldn't take my eyes off you. I had such a crush on you...not just then, but all of the way into freshman year, sophomore year, this year…"

"It was more than a crush though... Wasn't it?"

"So much more. I taught you to drive stick shift. Remember? I mean…Roscoe is a sensitive piece of machinery…so, if that doesn't say love, then I don't know what does."

"You pretended you needed to be persuaded when I asked you…but I knew you would say yes…" lips curling slightly, as she recalls the way she slid her hands inside his flannel and snuggled close to him, "and I kept my promise. I didn't hurt Roscoe…and I only stalled once."

Stiles raises his eyebrows and scrunches up his face. "You mean twice."

"The second time didn't count."

"Um…yes it did. It was worse than the first time. You let off the clutch way too fast and—"

"But it wasn't _my_ fault."

He pauses to touch her chin with his thumb, then grazes it along her bottom lip tugging at the corner of her pouting mouth. "Lyds, _you_ were driving."

"But you put your hand on my thigh!"

"I was trying to teach you."

"What? That you know how to break my concentration?"

His thumb, which is still resting at the corner of her mouth, goes along for the ride as an unreserved, Lydia Martin smile spreads across her lips…the first he has seen in over one month…and it is beautiful. He grins broadly at the sight of her dimples, deliberately tacking kisses to each of them before moving to her mouth. As he devotes his attention to her lips, Stiles feels Lydia grip his thigh, and his stomach flutters uncontrollably.

"Okay…okay…point taken – it was totally _my_ fault," he acknowledges, parting from her with a chuckle. "Speaking of broken concentration… Where was I?" he wonders aloud.

"You were reminding me of why I'm so special to you," she answers, gazing at him through her lashes and inching closer.

Stiles lifts her hand, and places it over the center of his chest. The gesture touches Lydia profoundly; it reaches to the innermost chambers of her heart, the parts she has only ever wanted to share with Stiles, the parts that allow her the hope of seeing a future with him.

"Exactly," he says. "You are the one who helped me find my dad – helped save him, and you're the one that brought me back – my anchor. Lydia…you saved Scott, you fought for me when most people would have given up, and you saved my life."

The way he looks at her makes everything else fade away, and she stills. Lydia has no doubt that she will remember this image of Stiles for as long as she lives – eyes blazing and focused on her, lips parted and curling up on one side, hand clutching hers so tightly that she can feel his love flowing into her.

She delicately runs her hand across his forehead and down the side of his face. "You saved my life too."

"You're the first and only girl I will ever love. You were even my first kiss. Do you remember? We were in sixth grade. It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation. Remember…?"


	11. The Only Exception

**December 21, 2007**

It's the last day of autumn, but winter has already made its presence known in Beacon Hills. The air is crisp and frigid. Signs of transition are everywhere. The trees are practically bare, with only handfuls of sepia leaves still clinging to their branches, edges tipped with frost. Patches of diminishing golden-green grass peek through a light dusting of snow and piles of fallen leaves. The sun is low in the sky, glowing amber against a break in the dense cover of clouds.

Eleven-year-old Lydia is gingerly making her way home from school, favoring her right ankle. A billowing haze of exhale mists in front of her eyes as she huffs with irritation while looking down at her shoes – silver Mary Janes with two-and-a-half-inch high heels and ankle straps. They were an early Christmas gift from her mother and the perfect complement to her new dress, so Lydia decided to wear them for the class holiday party. She practiced her balance for weeks and was steady on her feet for the entire day…until she slipped on a patch of ice, barely one block into her walk home.

Now, she is hobbling along the sidewalk, weighed down by the heaviness of her wool coat, schoolwork, and a few extra books she borrowed from the library to read over the vacation. It's so cold that her ears are beginning to numb, and she still has a long way to go. Angrily, she fights tears that seem determined to spill over her eyelashes, leaving trails of icy wetness on her cheeks. She blots the intrusive droplets with the tips of her fingers, flicking them onto the sidewalk with disdain. After adjusting her shoulder-bag, she tugs at the sides of her ivory-colored knit beret to cover the exposed skin of her ears. She willfully tilts her head up and moves forward, treading directly on top of the remnants of her teardrops which have moistened the pavement and leaving the unwanted evidence of her pain behind her.

Eleven-year-old Stiles and Scott are riding home from school on their bicycles. Just as they are about to approach their first turn off the main road, Stiles sees a familiar flash of strawberry-blonde out of the corner of his eye. _Lydia._ His heart speeds up as he follows her movement with his gaze, but his stomach drops when he realizes that something is wrong. Lydia is walking very slowly, and he is sure she is trying to hide the fact that she is limping…even though there is hardly anyone around. When Stiles notices that she is wiping her eyes, he skids to a stop and lowers his feet to the ground for balance.

"Hey, Scott. I'll…uh…I'll catch up with you later. Okay?" Stiles says, zipping up his grey puffer-jacket.

Scott is a few feet behind. "Huh?" he replies, still sucking on the remnants of a gumdrop he had been enjoying. He gradually slows his bike and pulls up next to Stiles. "Why?"

Stiles nods his head in Lydia's direction. "Look."

"What? Lydia?" he asks, coming to full stop. "Dude, you gotta stop that! There is a line between crushing on her and being a stalker, you know…" he teases with raised eyebrows and a huge grin.

Stiles gives his best friend a jab in the shoulder, narrowing his eyes before responding. "Yes, I'm aware, but look... She's hurt. I'm gonna go help her."

"Are you serious?" he questions, shaking his head with a fading smile.

"Scott, I can't just leave her like that."

"Yeah, I know but…you want me to come with?"

"Nah, you should go to the station. The cold is bad for your asthma, and my dad will be worried if neither of us show up. Anyway, I got this," Stiles replies, trying to sound more confident than he currently feels.

"Alright…if you're sure..."

"Yeah, I am."

"See you later then. Good luck." Scott pushes off on his bike and turns down the block, looking back once to smile at his friend.

Stiles changes course and crosses to the opposite side of the street, where Lydia is sluggishly progressing. A rush of nerves flourishes inside of him. His stomach has that feeling he always gets when Lydia is around – ever since the third grade. Adults call it butterflies, which makes it sound like it should feel nice. To Stiles, it's more frightening than nice. He guesses maybe it's like being on a roller coaster – you have to get used to it before you can enjoy it, but it's already been three years, so he figures that probably won't ever happen. Either way, Stiles wants it to calm down. He doesn't want to make a fool out of himself in front of Lydia…again.

He tries to remember the technique his dad told him to practice whenever he steps up to the plate in a little league game: _Take a deep breath and block everything else out – it's just you and the baseball_. Stiles inhales deeply, but it only provides the smallest amount of relief because comparing Lydia to a baseball makes about as much sense as comparing the brilliance of the sun to an ordinary light bulb. As he approaches the curb, he hears her wince and it makes him grimace...and suddenly, everything else fades away.

Lydia stops to rest, setting her bag down on the sidewalk and lightly massaging her sore ankle. Her cold hands ease some of the ache. She closes her eyes. Within seconds, she hears the sound of tires against tarmac, quickly getting closer. Immediately opening her eyes and releasing her ankle, she glances to the left, where she spots the wheels of a bicycle and a familiar pair of worn-in sneakers. _Stiles._ She tenses as the breath catches in her throat and her heart beats faster – she doesn't like that he can do that to her. It makes her feel vulnerable. On top of that, her eyes are still tearing with frustration and she doesn't need anyone seeing her cry. As Stiles comes to a stop next her, she keeps her head down, fiddling with the buckle of her shoe.

He stares at her for a moment before finding his voice. "Hey, Lydia… What's wrong?" he asks, voice laden with concern.

She briefly looks at him. "Nothing's wrong," she answers curtly.

Stiles can see the pain in her pretty green eyes, but she quickly straightens and turns away from him; fabric of her sapphire-blue coat swishing over her matching velvet dress, and distant afternoon sunlight glinting off the tips of her polished silver shoes.

Without another word, Lydia picks up her books and continues to walk, but Stiles keeps pace with her.

"Then why are you limping?" he asks, extending his arm towards Lydia and catching her by the elbow.

The contact stops them both in their tracks.

"I just…twisted my ankle a little…it's no big deal." She looks over her shoulder at Stiles and steps sideways, beyond his reach.

He dismounts his bicycle. "You shouldn't walk on it though. Hop on."

She widens her eyes and wrinkles up her nose at him. "This dress is new…so...I think I'll pass. Anyway, I'm fine on my own." With a fair degree of difficulty, she tries to hasten her steps, yet Stiles continues to walk next to her, towing his bike alongside him.

"Come on, Lydia. It must have taken you ten minutes to walk like one-and-a-half blocks. You've got at least another eleven to go. I know you can do the math…and at this rate, it will be dark before you get home." He angles the bike in front of her. "Here…sit down and I'll carry your books," he insists.

Stiles wishes she would just let him help her. He knows Lydia doesn't really trust people. He thinks maybe it's because someone hurt her, but he would never want to do that. He hopes that if he is kind enough and shows her that he wants to be her friend…she might be able to trust him someday.

Lydia wishes he would stop being so nice to her all of the time. No one is as nice to her as Stiles is. It makes her want to trust him – and nothing good can come of that. She can't understand why he insists on making it so hard for her to keep from liking him. He is looking at her in that way he does…the way that makes her feel important and special. No one else looks at her the way Stiles does. She knows it won't last though. He will get bored with her…just like everyone else. Lydia is about to tell him to go away, but the way he is looking at her feels so good, and it softens her. She starts wondering how much time has passed as she catches herself staring into his big brown eyes. She can't help it though...she never noticed how pretty they are until just now.

She takes a breath to refocus. "I don't think I can pedal with my ankle the way it is."

"That's okay. Sit and I'll push you," he tells her. When she doesn't comply, he tries harder to convince her. "Come on. If you don't say yes, I'm going to just ride the whole way with you anyway…so…"

"Alright…alright," she says, raising her hands in exasperated surrender.

Stiles takes her books and holds the bike steady, so she can get settled as comfortably as possible. Lydia sits in a side-saddle position, like he knew she would. When she twists around to clasp the handlebars, his warm hands and her cold ones make contact, and they both still.

She risks another glance at him. "Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Just…don't let me fall. Okay? I don't need any bruises to go with my _stupid_ sprained ankle."

"I won't. I'd never let that happen."

When he speaks, Lydia studies his expression, suspiciously searching for a tell – a blink, a curl of his lip, a twitch of his cheek – any of the things her father does when he tells her that he will make more time for her, anything that shows her that Stiles is being less than honest. She is fully prepared to find one, to get right back off the bike and ask him to go…but she can't. He looks directly into her eyes and never breaks contact. He says the words, fills them with meaning – and it sounds like a promise, like he would rather let himself get hurt than let her fall. She believes him.

Lydia purses her lips, diligently working to hide a smile as Stiles moves them forward.

They remain silent for the first few minutes. Stiles wants to talk to Lydia, but he can't think of a single thing to say. She is so beautiful…and she smells so good…and she makes him so nervous that it is nearly impossible to focus. Plus, she is so smart, he guesses there isn't anything he could say that Lydia might find even remotely interesting. Though the air is quite chilly, his hands are sweating on the handlebars, and he prays she doesn't notice.

Eventually, Stiles can't take the quiet anymore, so he simply brings up the first thing that comes to his mind. "So…uh…it's been really cold lately…"

"Small talk… Really?" she asks, shaking her head. "You want to talk about the weather? What are we…two old people?"

"Well…I…" His voice trails off as he lets out a sigh, sending a visible cloud of breath gusting into the air. "Fine. If you're such a great conversationalist, then _you_ pick something for us to talk about…unless you'd rather be silent the rest of the way."

Stiles tightens his grip on the bike, irritated by her response. As much as he likes her, Lydia can be so annoyingly blunt. He wonders why she couldn't just do what most people would do – play along until he relaxes enough to have a real conversation. The irritation is quickly replaced with a warm sensation in his chest when Stiles realizes that this is just one of the many things he likes about her – she isn't like everyone else – _she is Lydia._

Lydia knows he can do better than this. Stiles might not be able to sit still for more than five minutes at a time, but she knows it's because he is trying to pay attention to everything around him. He is interested in a lot of things…like astronomy, and baseball, and solving puzzles, so she is positive he has something much more interesting to talk about than a sudden drop in temperature. She decides to push his buttons to see if he lightens up enough to talk to her. Anyway, it serves him right for making her want to trust him, for getting her to like him, for making her feel so many things all at once.

"Okay, I will," she replies smugly. "Why were you riding this way, when your house is in the other direction?"

 _And she goes right for the jugular_ , he thinks…but he says, "I was going to Scott's house." The statement comes out sounding more like a question than an answer.

"This is out of the way if you were going to Scott's too," she presses, keeping her focus ahead of her, but quirking her mouth on one side.

He tries again; traitorous voice still giving him away. "I was going to the baseball field…to practice."

"Alone…and without any of your gear? Come on…"

"Alright… I saw you…and I wanted to make sure you got home okay."

Lydia's head promptly snaps in his direction. That wasn't the answer she was expecting, so she follows up with another question. "Why?"

"Because…"

Stiles can feel Lydia watching him and he wants to return her gaze without crashing the bike, so he stops momentarily. When he turns to look at her, their faces are so close that he can count her eyelashes and freckles. He doesn't let himself hope that it will matter to her, but even so, Stiles wants Lydia to know he cares about her. He tells her the truth because what's the worst that can happen…she still needs him to get home.

"Stiles?" she coaxes, rather impatiently.

"Because I was worried about you…and I knew you wouldn't ask anyone for help."

Lydia furrows her eyebrows and blinks repeatedly. She ponders his response, then quickly turns away again, trying not to show how much his open admission of concern and insight are affecting her. She can't look in his eyes right now, but at the same time she feels safe enough to share something with him. Maybe it will help Stiles understand her. For some reason, it is important to her that he does.

After a long pause, she speaks. "Yeah, well…you can't rely on people. They always…" She breaks, cringing at the quivering sound of her own voice, then swallows slowly and sucks in a breath. The freezing air fills her already tightening lungs, making them sting.

Stiles thinks he sees Lydia's lip trembling and he knows it has little to do with the cold. "Always what?" he asks, gently brushing his index finger against the side of her pinky.

The feeling of his hand against hers warms Lydia from the inside and opens her up a bit more. "Let you down."

Hearing the pain in her voice makes his stomach hurt. He wants to make her feel better but isn't sure how. "That's true a lot of times, but not always. Sometimes...people surprise you."

Her tone is flat when she retorts, "I'd rather not be surprised."

"Yeah, I figured," he replies with an almost inaudible trace of sadness in his voice.

When he prepares to move forward, she stops him.

"Stiles, hang on a second."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just…don't want to sit this way anymore. Can you—" She wants to say _help me_ , but the words refuse to come out.

He instantly knows that Lydia is asking for help, and he also knows it isn't easy for her, so he doesn't make her say it. If there is anything Stiles can do to keep her from being uncomfortable, he will do it.

"Yeah, sure," he interrupts. He holds the bike still, waiting for her to swing her left leg to the other side and carefully assisting so her heel doesn't get caught on the crossbar. "Better?"

"Yeah," she answers with a faint smile.

"You ready?" he asks, looking at her through his lashes.

Lydia makes eye contact with Stiles and nods, watching how wisps of his dark hair graze against his forehead in the breeze. _He is pretty cute,_ she admits to herself. Without thinking, she stretches her fingers and readjusts them around the handlebars, hooking her pinky over his index finger.

Stiles's eyes widen at her touch, but he manages to focus enough to keep the bike steady and move ahead. When he realizes that they are already halfway to Lydia's house, he can't help but be disappointed. He wants to talk to her more, before he runs out of time. Strangely enough, it's getting easier than he thought it would be.

"Have you started working on a project for the science fair?" he asks.

"I haven't really thought about it," she fibs, flaring her fingers and pretending to admire her nail polish. She is practically finished already, not that she is going to participate.

"Why not?"

"I don't think I'm going to enter this year. Maybe it's…just a waste of time."

Stiles heart sinks when he hears her say that. Lydia always participates in the science fair. She looks forward to it, almost as much as the math bee. "No, it isn't. You like science and you're really good at it."

She shrugs her shoulders. "So?"

" _So_ …if you like doing something, then it's not a waste of time."

"I guess."

"You _really_ haven't thought about it…at all?" he questions with disbelief.

"Well, maybe a little," she confesses.

His heart lifts when he sees a shy grin creeping onto Lydia's face. "I knew it! What's your subject?"

"Geotropisms in germinating seeds."

He stares at her, mouth hanging open a bit. "What in the world…?"

"Basically, it explains how plant growth responds to gravity. It tests the theory that no matter what position a seed is placed in when it is planted, the roots will grow downwards, _towards_ gravity…and the plant will grow upwards, _away_ from gravity."

As soon as Lydia begins describing her project, her face lights up with excitement. It makes Stiles really happy to see her like that, and he can't help but smile. "So…you only thought about it a little… Right?" he teases.

She bites her lip, but it doesn't hide her enthusiasm. "What about you? Are you going to enter?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Did you pick a subject?"

"Nah…we still have plenty of time before it's due."

"There's only a few more weeks. You always wait 'til the last minute," she notes, looking off to one side.

"I do not," Stiles claims with mock offense.

Her eyes flick back to his face. _"Yes,_ you do…but you work better that way anyhow. Don't you?"

"Yeah," he replies, with a hint of pride. "Hey…how'd you know that?" he asks, scrunching up his face.

Again, she averts her eyes. This time looking down at her lap. "You're not the only one who notices things."

Shocked, Stiles stops the bike for the second time. The knowledge that Lydia _does_ notice him, that she actually pays attention to him, is far from what he expected to learn about her from this conversation. It triggers another round of butterflies, and this time it is a little less uncomfortable. He feels bold enough to tell her what he really wants to say. "Well, for what it's worth..."

Lydia is still looking at her lap, so Stiles nudges her pinky, which is still resting on top of his index finger. Then he links their digits together, hoping she will look at him…and she does. She holds his glance with interest, waiting for him to continue.

Clearing his throat, which has suddenly gone very dry, Stiles begins again. "For what it's worth, I think you _should_ enter your project…'cause it sounds amazing…and you'll probably win first prize."

Lydia wants to tell him, it's worth a lot – the fact that he believes in her. It's worth more than he'll ever know because sometimes, she thinks, he might be the only person who does. Instead, she just says, "I'll think about it."

Stiles believes in her. Lydia can do anything. He knows it, and he hopes she does take part in the science fair because he wants to listen to her talk about her project and see the excitement in her eyes when she does. He wants to watch her make it to the final round and clap for her louder than anyone else…when she receives her gold medal. The thought alone makes Stiles beam and he forgets all of his nervousness. He just wants to talk to Lydia for as long as he can.

"What are you doing over vacation?" he asks her, as he continues forward once more.

She pouts. "I have to spend most of it at my dad's in Portland."

"Oh…you don't sound very happy about that."

"I'm supposed to meet his new girlfriend," she explains, rolling her eyes. "It's his third one in two years – so gross. I'd rather stay here with my mom anyway."

"Portland's nice though… Right?"

"I wouldn't know. Whenever I go there, I spend most of the time in my dad's apartment with his housekeeper…while he is at work, or at business events, or on dates. I don't get to see much of the city."

Stiles's stomach drops again. He doesn't understand Lydia's father. How could he not want to spend time with his daughter? ...especially when his daughter is as incredible as Lydia. It makes Stiles extra grateful that his own dad always makes time for him, even though he works really long hours. He thinks Lydia deserves a father who is as good as his own.

"That sucks. I'm sorry."

"It's been like that ever since he left…" she pauses, reflexively tightening her finger around his. "Whatever…it's not easy to be around him…and it will give me more time to read."

He can tell that Lydia is trying to cover how much she is hurting. She obviously doesn't want to talk about it, so he takes her lead. "What book are you reading?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

Stiles knows Lydia is looking at him again. He hopes he isn't starting to annoy her with his chatter. "Sorry," he says, biting his lip into a frown.

"Don't apologize. It's not a bad thing. It's just… _different_. People don't usually ask me… Anyway, to answer your question, I'm reading _Persuasion_ , by Jane Austen."

"What's it about?"

"A lot of things…but mostly, these two young people…Anne Elliot and Frederick Wentworth. They live in England in the early 1800s. They were very much in love and engaged to be married, but Anne's mentor convinces her that Wentworth isn't the right person for her. So, Anne breaks off the engagement…even though he made her really happy. Throughout their lives, she and Wentworth meet – over and over again. They clearly still love each other, but all of these misunderstandings and hurt feelings keep them apart."

"Wow…that sounds…depressing."

"Yeah… I guess it is," she laughs softly. "But it's so beautifully written. Listen to this…it's my favorite line so far: _There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved._ It's like poetry."

Lydia can't believe how easy it is to open up to Stiles. He seems genuinely interested in what she is saying, but she catches herself getting too comfortable and tries to recoil…because it feels too nice and there is no way it can last.

"Sorry…I didn't mean to go on like that," she states quickly.

Stiles can't believe how much she is opening up to him. He wishes there was something he could do to keep Lydia with him…even just a little bit longer. By now, they have reached the front of her house. He carefully stops his bike as close to the porch as possible, then he lets go of one side of the handlebars, discreetly wiping his hand on his jeans before offering it to her.

"Don't be sorry. It _is_ beautiful…"

He utters the words with conviction, feeling brave enough to look into her eyes, but not quite brave enough to tell her he thinks _she_ is beautiful…and so smart…and really special.

"…and I like hearing what you think," he finishes.

She smiles and timidly tucks her hair behind her ear before accepting his hand and easing herself off the bicycle. Stiles would love to be able to make her smile like that every day.

"Lydia?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think things will work out between Anne and Wentworth?"

It strikes Lydia that Stiles must have actually been paying attention to what she said because he remembered the characters' names. Even more striking, he asked what she thinks. It's an unfamiliar experience. She has observed that people generally just nod and smile when she talks…and they never ask for her opinion. Stiles not only asked – he appears to care too. Her heart starts beating faster when she notices that he is still firmly holding her hand. She squeezes back, and it feels nice…and warm…and safe…and she doesn't want to let go.

"I don't know, maybe it's silly, but part of me hopes so…even if things like that don't happen in real life. I mean…what is the point of it all...if they don't end up together?"

In the short time they've been talking, Stiles has come to understand that Lydia is even more amazing than he already thought. Being with her feels so natural and easy. He wonders if it is the same for other people when they like someone this much. He can't quite get over the astonishment that Lydia not only let him hold her hand, she just squeezed her fingers around his palm…rather tightly. It feels nice…and warm…and safe…and he doesn't want to let go.

They look at each other for a long moment – both unsure of what to say.

"Well…thanks for—" she starts.

"Hold on. I got you this far…and you still have all those steps. Is it okay if I help you?"

Lydia blinks a few times before nodding her head in silent agreement.

Stiles hesitates briefly, then lifts their joined hands, draping Lydia's arm over his shoulder. Her eyes are on him again, and he knows he must be flushed. As he leans closer and puts his opposite arm around her waist, he secretly hopes she will assume that his red cheeks are due to the cold. Being so close to Lydia makes his stomach flutter again, but it isn't strange anymore. In fact, it's starting to feel pretty good.

As they slowly ascend the stairs, Lydia's fear starts to expand. This was the best time she has spent with a boy, and it makes her feel things that she shouldn't. She is not supposed to want to tell him what she thinks or how she feels. She is not supposed to like how warm she is with his arm around her or to be able to trust him so easily. It will only make things worse later when he leaves, like everyone else.

When they reach the top step, she lets go of his shoulder and moves to the front door by herself, hurriedly unlocking it. Then, she takes her books from Stiles, and sets them inside the doorway.

As soon as he lets go of Lydia, Stiles feels restless and hesitant about what to do next. He is still awestruck that he just had his arm around her…and maybe even more surprising – she didn't even seem to mind being so close to him. While she has her back turned, he shoves his hands into his pockets, lets out the breath he has been holding, and tilts his head upwards trying to gather his composure. He notices a cluster of mistletoe suspended from the door frame, and before he fully considers the implication, rather awkwardly points it out, "Hey…uh…we're standing under mistletoe."

Lydia lets her fear get the better of her, abruptly whipping around to face him. "Such an archaic tradition, don't you think? I don't get my mom sometimes," she blurts out with a scowl.

"Uh…" Stunned by the sudden change in her, Stiles automatically blames himself for saying the wrong thing. It was going so well between them, and then he had to ruin it by making Lydia think he is just like every other boy who is only looking for an excuse to kiss her. He worries that now she will think he was only pretending to be interested in her, which couldn't be further from the truth.

"People should only kiss if they want to… Right?" she asks.

"Yeah, of course."

"I mean… _really_ …" she continues, "expecting people to kiss just because they happen to be standing near each other." She crosses her arms. "Did you know mistletoe is actually a parasite? It's also highly toxic. How's that for irony?"

"When you put it that way, it sounds pretty messed up…" he concedes, sliding his hand out of his pocket to scratch anxiously at the back of his head, "but…maybe the idea behind it was to turn something that's not so great into something better. You know, to give it a different meaning…so it doesn't have to be all bad."

She looks at him and tilts her head to one side. "That's interesting… I never thought of it that way before."

Lydia likes that Stiles didn't just mindlessly agree with her. He wasn't afraid to have an opinion different from hers. Most boys just agree with whatever she says, and she knows it's because they aren't really listening. His answer surprises her, and she thinks that maybe being surprised isn't so bad. She wants to keep him with her a bit longer.

"What are you doing over vacation?" she asks, letting her arms fall to her sides.

Stiles is relieved that Lydia has relaxed again. He wonders if maybe she understands that he wasn't trying to pressure her. Sure, he would like to kiss her someday, but he really cares about her too. If she gets anything out of the time they spent together today, he hopes she knows that.

"Nothing much…I'll probably be at Scott's most of the time, while my dad is at work. The past few years, we've spent the holiday with Scott and Mrs. McCall."

"That sounds nice."

"Yeah. It's not the same as when my mom…" his voice trails off as he remembers the last Christmas they spent together, "but being with them helps."

She looks at him sympathetically. When she speaks, her voice is soft; barely a whisper. "Yeah, I get that. Things were different…when my grandmother was around." She looks up blinking back unwanted tears.

The sun is closer to setting now, and the clouds have parted completely, exposing streaks of crimson, orange, and blue. Beams of soft light descend from above, giving every surface they connect with an enchanted glow; the wet bark of the trees shines, the rooftops and frosted windows shimmer, and the scattered remains of last night's snow flurry sparkle like glitter.

Lydia and Stiles stand at the front door, both shifting their glances between each other and the ground, both unwilling to move away from each other.

"Well…I…uh…should probably get going…" Stiles begins.

"Oh…don't you want to come in for a bit and warm up? You must be as cold as I am."

If he didn't know better, Stiles would think Lydia was trying to keep him there. He tells himself she is just being polite. It still feels pretty incredible that she asked though. "Thanks…I would but…I'm supposed to meet Scott at the station. My dad is waiting for us."

"Okay…some other time maybe. I can tell you how _Persuasion_ turns out."

"Yeah, sure. I'd like that," he answers, with a nod. He turns to leave and then back again. "Hey…um…make sure you stay off your ankle…and put ice on it…and maybe you should get it checked out by a doctor…just in case."

Lydia already knows all of this, but she can tell that the concern in his voice and expression are genuine, so she listens and smiles gratefully at him. "I will. Don't worry."

Stiles notices Lydia's dimples when she smiles, and he thinks he wouldn't mind seeing them every day. Her smile makes him feel something around his heart – a tugging sensation. He has never felt that before, and he doesn't remember hearing anyone he knows describe anything like it. It certainly doesn't hurt though, and he can't help but smile back at her.

Lydia feels lit up inside when Stiles smiles at her. For a second, she thinks his eyes flash with specks of gold. His cheeks are red, and she wonders if it is from the cold or if he is blushing. She hopes it's the latter. His face is sweet and honest, and she is not used to that, but she likes it…a lot. When other boys smile at her, she always sees something else there, and it looks like an ulterior motive or deception. She is suddenly pressed with the need to step nearer to Stiles. It's as though something is pulling her towards him.

"I guess…I'll see you after vacation then," he says.

"Yeah."

He turns to leave again, but this time Lydia puts her hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"Hey, Stiles?"

"Yeah?" he answers, facing her once more.

Before he can blink, she leans into him and lightly presses her lips against his…and her lips are soft…and she tastes like the gingerbread cookies from the Christmas party…and it's so fast he almost thinks he imagined it – _almost._

She touches her nose to his, and her exhale breezes across his lips as she whispers, "Thanks for not letting me down."

Stiles stares at Lydia wide-eyed and breathless. Before he can say "you're welcome", she turns away and disappears behind the great wooden door of the Martin home. His mind feels blank at the moment, but he knows he will never forget the time he just spent with Lydia. He rides his bike to the sheriff's station with the feeling that his heart might leap out of his chest and an enormous grin imprinted on his face.

Lydia leans up against the grain with a sigh. She is glad her mom is still at work because she cannot wipe the smile from her face, and she doesn't want to have to explain it to her. She wants the moment to be just between Stiles and herself – its theirs and no one else's. Closing her eyes, she deliberately works to commit every detail to her memory. Then, she unbuckles her silver shoes and sets them aside, feeling pleased, for the first time since she slipped, that she decided to wear them today.

After getting some ice from the kitchen, Lydia limps over to the sofa in the living room, so she can continue reading _Persuasion_. She can't wait to find out how it ends…so she can talk about it with Stiles.


	12. The Good is Not Lost

**Present Day:** April 27

"I remember. Stiles, I remember everything."

Lydia kisses him softly and nudges his nose with hers, just as she had done six years before. It takes his breath away…all over again. She shivers as Stiles moves his hands to her waist, pulling her closer.

"It was my first kiss too," she tells him.

"It was?"

"Yeah…the first and still one of the best."

He smiles brightly at her. "Lyds, it was one of the best moments of my life. You made me so happy that day – not just because you kissed me, but because you trusted me enough to let me help you. But you know what? I never told anyone what happened between us…not even Scott."

"Really?"

"Yeah, that way I could have something that was just ours. You were that important to me…even then. I thought it could be the start of something, but we were so young…I didn't fully understand what that would be…and I couldn't even find the words to tell you. But now, I do understand, and the only words that come to mind…well, they aren't even my own, but hopefully, they'll do it justice. Do you remember Wentworth's letter to Anne?"

"Yes," she recalls with a hint of a smile on her lips.

Stiles takes Lydia's left hand and kisses it. "In that letter he writes something like… _I give myself to you…with a heart even more your own…I have loved none but you,"_ he paraphrases. "That's how I feel about you."

With his mouth pressed to the back of Lydia's hand, he looks up at her through his beautifully dark thick lashes...and he is setting her heart ablaze for him.

"I always loved those lines," she answers wistfully. Then, she stirs; face reshaping with comprehension. "Wait a minute. You couldn't know that letter so well unless…Stiles, you read _Persuasion!_ " she exclaims in a broken whisper. "When?"

He blushes, sudden wave of shyness flourishing as he kisses her hand a second time. "I may have picked up a copy at the library the next day…and read it over the vacation. Then, last week, after we ran into each other at Scott's house…I was thinking about you…missing you so badly, and that memory popped into my head. So, I read the book again."

Her eyes mist, and she blinks rapidly to clear her vision. "So…after the holiday, when I told you how it ended…you already knew…and you let me go on anyway?"

"I got to talk to you. Didn't I?" he confesses with a slowly burgeoning grin.

"Just when I think I can't possibly love you more…I find out something like this." She tilts her head into his neck and plants a kiss against the warm skin under his jaw while tightening her grip on his hand. "Remember that day? You walked me home from school and we sat together on the front porch…and we talked for such a long time."

"Yeah, I remember. It was so cold…your little nose was all red and your hands were freezing…but you didn't want to go inside, because you wanted to watch the snow falling."

The memory tugs at his heart. Lydia perched next to him on stone steps, bundled in royal blue wool and white cotton knit, right toe of her snow boot connecting with the left heel of his, rosy cheeks blossoming through creamy skin, dainty hands clasped in her lap as the twinkle of multi-colored Christmas lights overhead reflected in her eyes. He could have sat with her for days on end – blistering cold and darkening skies be damned. He could have just listened to her talk or settled into complete silence – forever.

"You gave me your gloves…and we stayed right where we were...until the snow stopped," she recalls.

"I remember thinking how pretty you looked. Your eyes were all full of light and there were snowflakes scattered in your hair. When you told me that you had finished your project, and you were going to enter the science fair…the way you were smiling…" he shakes his head in awe of the memory.

Lydia pictures them; two innocent children, six years into the past. A time before werewolves and their hunters were a reality, before alpha pacts and sacrifices were as much a part of their daily lives as math class or lacrosse practice, before Peter and the Nogitsune sought to control, before more close calls with death than she can bear to count, before bloodshed and finding bodies. They had both already suffered agonizing loss in their eleven short years – Stiles, his mother; Lydia, her father and grandmother – yet there was so much loss still looming ahead of them. It hurts to remember, but she listens to Stiles; emotion in his voice a melody and his words the lyrics that run through it, both heading straight to her heart. His message is clear: _Her happiness has always mattered to him. He has always loved her._

The burden of her mistakes weighs more heavily on her body with each passing second. Her beryl green eyes fill up and overflow with remorse, and she gasps.

He can feel Lydia tensing in his arms. "Hey, what is it?" he asks. Her ribs are worryingly still under his palms, making him aware that she is holding her breath. Stiles actively tries to persuade an exhale to leave her lungs. "Lyds, breathe. It's okay. Just breathe for me," he pleads, more forcefully massaging her torso in smooth circular motions. He waits; his own chest aching for the release in hers.

Her breath is finally issued in a quivering cry. "Stiles, I'm sorry."

"What do you mean? What are you sorry for?"

His voice is so tender it makes her heart ache.

"Because after…we didn't talk like that again. We would say a few words to each other at school, but the more time that passed, the more distant I got."

He hears it – the embarrassment in her voice, and he knows that it's his fault. Words he _should have_ but _didn't_ withhold in the heat of their argument are still causing her pain, and he hates it.

"Lydia…it's in the past. It wasn't fair of me to dredge it up this afternoon."

"You had every right to say that to me. It obviously hurt you and it's worse because…" She can't finish the sentence, the guilt is swirling in her stomach and making her nauseous. She keeps her gaze on their joined hands, shame making her afraid to glance up and see the damage she caused.

"Because what?"

She sucks in a sharp breath, straining to produce an answer, her throat tightly constricting with distress. "Because…because I liked you. I liked talking to you because you were interested, and opinionated, and curious, and…you were so sweet…and really cute…"

Stiles lets out an exaggerated sigh, and Lydia reflexively lifts her head from his shoulder, eyes flashing towards his face. She fully expects to see features colored with disappointment, or frustration, or anger…or all three – everything she deserves to have directed at her for the wicked way she acted. Instead, she sees nothing but love.

"How can you be smiling right now?" she asks, pitch of her voice crackling with disbelief.

"Why shouldn't I be?" he replies, eyebrows arched in surprise at the absurdity of her question.

"Aren't you upset with me? I was so unfair. You were so good to me and then…all of that time…I ignored you…and I pushed you away, until we were like strangers."

"But you liked me?" His eyes are gleaming gold from within, and his expression is one of peaceful content, highlighted with a touch of astonishment.

"Yes, I liked you. I liked you a lot, but…" Her mouth opens to form the next word, but she is muted by fear.

"Go ahead. You can tell me," Stiles says reassuringly.

She reaches for his shoulders, pressing her hands into him as if her balance were dependent on it. Again, her eyes search his face for a change…but still find only unreserved love. Stiles is looking at her in that soft way that he does, the way that promises he will listen to her and never judge – no matter what she discloses. _How is he real?_

"But it scared me. Things used to be good with my dad…until they weren't. As much as I complained about not wanting to go to Portland that Christmas, I was still really disappointed that he spent so little time with me. When I came home and the two of us spent that afternoon together, you reminded me of how nice it felt to have someone actually listen…the way he used to…but then, I don't know…I guess I was afraid that you would do the same thing he did…just stop listening someday, and I didn't want to give you the chance to do that to me. I didn't know. I didn't know…"

The words are spilling out of Lydia's mouth the same way fresh tears are spilling down her cheeks – quickly, heavily, and uncontrollably. Stiles recognizes years of her pain breaching the surface with each droplet. Seeing her so distraught inflicts a shrill ache behind his ribs. It means to spread rapidly, to drag him into the depths with her, but he actively works to remain steady for Lydia, to try to comfort her in any way that he can. He slows her words with his lips and wipes the traces of her tears with his hand.

She intensifies the contact, sobbing into his mouth, handfuls of his navy cotton tee shirt clutched within her fists.

When he parts from her, Stiles speaks as softly as possible. "Lydia, how could I be upset with you…knowing that was the reason?"

"Because it was wrong for me to treat you like that. Even when we were kids, you believed in me, you encouraged me to be myself, to do things that made me happy, but…I let myself disappear…and I let you think I didn't want to be around you…that I didn't even notice you. I don't know how things would have been between us…we were just kids, but we could have at least been friends…if I hadn't…" She moves her hands to his face, caressing him from brow to jawline. "I'm so sorry. If I could go back…" She touches his lips as if trying to draw absolution from them. "Please, Stiles…please forgive me."

He offers the forgiveness Lydia needs, saying the words directly into her fingers, hoping the sentiment he intends to articulate will carry straight through to her precious bones, aiming to make them a part of her marrow – part of her. "I do. Of course, I forgive you." He grabs her digits, dropping kisses against the pads of her fingertips. Their faces mere inches apart, her body quakes alongside his, short puffs of air gusting across his chin. "Shh…it's alright. Come here," he coaxes, slinging her legs over his lap. "Everything is okay now. I promise." Then his eyes lock with hers, completely focused, not even a blink when he tells her, "Lydia, you didn't disappear. I still saw you. I see you right now…and I will always see you – the real you," he adds.

 _He sees me, and he loves me. He always has_ , she thinks…and just like that, Stiles makes the sun come out, melts every bit of tension from her body, and dries up the river of tears she has been crying.

"I see you too Stiles, and I'm not going to look away again."

"Good." His mouth shifts upwards into a crooked smile as he bumps the tip of her nose with his own. "Do you know what it means to me…to understand how you felt?"

"Hopefully about as much as it means for me to finally be able to tell you." She scoots closer, nestling her head into the crook of his neck once more and inhaling to fill her lungs with his familiar scent. "Can I ask you something?"

Stiles squeezes Lydia close to his chest marveling at how quickly she has calmed – that he can make her feel better, ease her pain instead of causing it. The dim room miraculously seems brighter. Pure light filters through his retinas, refracts through his mind, and channels deep inside his heart, anchoring to a place that only Lydia has ever been able to touch.

"Sure."

"What made you decide to read _Persuasion_ back then?" she inquires.

"You. I wanted to know you better, and I thought reading something you liked would help me do that."

"Did it help?"

"Yeah, it did. Well…after I got the Spark's Notes to go with it…'cause Jane Austen is kind of above reading level for an eleven-year-old…unless that eleven-year-old is you."

The sound of his voice rings with pride, not in himself, but in her – because not only has Stiles never been threatened by her intelligence, he treasures it. More than a muffled vibration inside his chest, his tone resonates, rumbling against her ear and traveling until it reaches a hallowed place, fathoms deep inside, a place no one but Stiles has ever been able to touch.

Lydia silently laughs against his neck, dragging her hands up and down the front of his shirt as he fiddles with the lace of her camisole. "What about the second time you read it?"

"The second time was different. For one thing, I didn't need the notes," he says, lightly tickling her sides while she squirms, "but also it helped me understand myself better. Lydia, I don't want us to spend years apart, like Anne and Wentworth did. I feel like our chance is right in front of us, right now, and we have to take it. You know? Maybe we could start over."

"No, Stiles. I don't think that's a good idea," she answers, shaking her head adamantly against his shoulder.

Stiles is stunned by her immediate response. He leans back to look at her, hoping it will help make sense of her refusal. Lydia can see that his face is stricken with upset and confusion, when only seconds ago it was relaxed and peaceful. She hurriedly works to explain.

"What I'm saying is…I don't want to start over. I don't want to forget everything we've been to each other, everything we still are. You were a lot of firsts for me too, you know. You were the first boy who ever listened to me… _really listened_ , the first I ever trusted, the first and only to truly see me, the first and only I fell completely in love with, and the only one to love me back. If we erase the bad parts, we'll erase the good parts too. I don't want to lose all of that. I want to keep going…together. I don't want us to miss our chance either, so we have to do better for each other. You were right. We have to talk about the difficult things, and…we can't expect or assume the way we have been."

She leans closer, stroking his jaw with her fingertips and tracing lines between the series of moles there. His beautiful brown eyes are fixed on hers and his strong arms surround her. Lydia knows she is safe and protected, and it opens her up a bit more.

"Stiles?"

"Yeah, Lyds," he responds, easing into her touch.

"Do you want to know a secret?" she whispers, pressing her lips to his cheeks, one at a time. They are all flushed, and she adores it.

He nods. When she touches him like this, it's difficult to speak. His heart picks up its pace as she moves closer, nothing but the thin material of their clothing between himself and the enticing warmth of her curves.

She kisses his eyelids, and she can feel his lashes tickling her lips – just like the butterflies that are tickling her stomach. "You're also the first and only to break my heart." This time, his expression alters under her lips.

"I never wanted to do that."

"I know. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. There has been more than enough guilt going around between the two of us. But I need to understand something. After the way we were together, why couldn't you believe that I loved you?"

"I should have believed it. You were showing me…every day. I saw it."

"But it wasn't enough."

He bites his lip and releases it with a sigh. "I guess part of me really wanted to hear you say it…to be sure. I guess that sounds kind of pathetic… Huh?"

"No, it doesn't. It sounds completely…human. Sometimes I forget that you are…because you seem to have this superhuman ability to understand me. You're so good at reading me. A lot of the time, you know what's going through my mind before I do, and I think I took that for granted. I shouldn't have assumed that you understood what I couldn't say. I wish I had been brave enough to say it, because Stiles, you deserve to hear it."

"It's not all on you though, Lydia, because…just as big a part of me knew you were doing the best you could…despite how much you've been hurt – and that _is_ incredibly brave. There were so many moments when I felt how much you love me, but I kept convincing myself that it wasn't possible…that we would never be more than friends."

She nervously fusses with the collar of his tee shirt. "Is that because you don't think I've changed – that I'm the same girl who pushed you away and ignored you? Because I don't want to be that person. I want to be as good to you as you are to me."

He kisses her forehead. "Don't blame yourself. Please. It wasn't your fault, and you _are_ good to me."

"But I want to be better. I want to be better for you…and for Allison and Scott. I want to be the kind of friend they've been to me, and I want to be the kind of girl you deserve, because Stiles…what you deserve is someone who _never_ makes you doubt how amazing you are." She runs her hands through his hair, playing with an end that is sticking out on one side. "Did you really have no idea how incredible I think you are? How lucky I feel to have you care about me the way you do? Because if that's the case…if I made you feel like you weren't enough…"

Lydia attempts to avert her eyes, but Stiles cups her cheek to bring her back to him.

"Listen to me, I don't want you to change. Okay? Just be you. That's all I need. Lyds, I wish you could see yourself the way I do 'cause I don't think you have any idea how good you are. After Allison," he stops, swallowing with difficulty, then begins again. "After Allison, you were traumatized…and heartbroken, but all you could think of was everyone else – Scott…Chris…me. The way you sat with me in the hospital and the way you wanted to take care of me when I came home…I will _never_ forget it. You did everything right. You gave me everything I needed…because you never left my side and you let me take care of you too. I just…couldn't get past the guilt…and a fair amount of insecurity, but that's on me, not you. And honestly, a big part of the problem was…I couldn't believe that you were falling for me because…it seemed too good to be true. I figured…life doesn't work that way, you know – it doesn't give you what you want most. So, I kept putting it out of my head. I thought it would be enough just for me to love you…but I can't live like that anymore. I'll do anything to be with you…just tell me what you want."

"You know it means the world to me that you feel that way, but…I think that's part of the problem too. Our relationship can't be one-sided like that. You are always concerned about what I want. I mean, you said it yourself…you left because you thought it would help me…never mind what it did to you. You made it all about me – but it has to be about _us_ , Stiles. It's not just me or just you. It's _Us_. What you want is important to me. I need you to understand that I would do anything to be with you too… _anything_ …but I need you to tell me what _you_ want."

"I want to see you smile," he says, running his thumb across her cheekbone.

"But what do you want for _yourself_?"

"That _is_ something for me. It makes me happy to see you smile…especially if I'm the one making you do it. Also, I love your dimples," he adds with a wink.

She rolls her eyes but can't withhold a smirk.

"Yup…I feel happier already."

She kisses the tip of his nose. "What else?"

"I want you to let me love you… _really_ love you. No holding back, no hiding, no turning away when things get difficult. I don't have much…Who am I kidding? I don't have _any_ experience being in a relationship, but I'll give you everything I have."

"You have more experience being in a relationship than you think. The way you are with me…the way you listen, the way you care, how you believe in me – those things are _all_ so important, and you didn't have to learn them – they've always been a part of who you are."

"I know I messed up when I left…but I want you to be able to trust me again," Stiles continues.

His arms tighten around Lydia's body, and she can sense the escalating need in him. She feels it too, like no matter how close they are, it is still not close enough.

"I _do_ trust you. I never stopped, and everything you told me tonight, proves that trusting you could never be a mistake. You chose to tell me the truth. You could have waited until things went further, but you didn't. It would have been so easy…because I didn't want to talk about it. But you knew I needed to hear it. You knew that it would hurt more if you waited until after we were together, that it would have made what happened with Malia into something that it wasn't. You did the right thing...even though you had considered the possibility that I would push you away again. It was more important to you that we are honest with each other, and that makes me love you even more."

Lydia surprises herself at how easily Malia's name passes from her mouth. For weeks, that name had been haunting her; a discordant echo, resounding in her mind, triggering a sharp twisting in her stomach and nagging twinge that crawled underneath her skin. It represented an unknown threat, a phantom force that became more unsettling and grew more imposing every day…until she couldn't even bring herself to say it.

Because of Stiles, everything has changed. The simple act of talking with him and listening to him explain how he truly feels, has made all the difference. The name Malia has no power over Lydia anymore. It's just a name – a name that belongs to a girl who could never change what she and Stiles have built together.

"I know it wasn't easy for you to hear it…but you listened anyway. Thank you for believing me," he says.

"You make that really easy," she praises, left dimple popping through as she quirks the side of her mouth. "Tell me what else you want?"

"I want to know that I can make you happy."

"You do," she assures Stiles, drawing him into a kiss. "Very happy," she clarifies with a timid smile. "Maybe you make me _too_ happy," she wonders aloud before she even has the chance to catch herself.

 _"Too happy?_ Is that a thing?"

She purses her lips. "I'm not sure, but I think it means that you're going to break my heart again."

"I won't." He cinches his eyebrows, determinedly shaking his head. "I won't, I won't," he repeats insistently.

"Stiles, you will…probably a few times. You won't mean to – I know that…but it's inevitable…you'll break my heart."

"I don't understand."

"It's hard to explain."

"Can you try for me?" he asks, lifting his hand to brush a few errant strands of hair from her face.

"I'm not sure where to start." Lydia licks her lips and takes a breath. "I guess…the first thing you should know is that you've got an incredibly strong hold on my heart…more than I thought anyone could ever have. I started to feel it at the beginning of the school year."

"That far back?" he utters with obvious surprise.

"Yes. Do you remember that night with Allison and Scott…when we met on the road, and the deer ran through my windshield?"

"Yeah, of course," he recalls, closing his eyes for a moment. "I was so scared for you. I'm pretty sure my heart stopped beating until I saw that you were okay."

Lydia runs her fingertips along his forearms as she continues. "I was scared too…and not just because of what happened with the deer."

"How so?"

"Well...we hadn't seen each other since the end of sophomore year. After everything that happened, I wanted to distance myself from everyone and everything. So, for the entire summer…I did. Allison was in France. Most days I was alone, and aside from those few guys I told you about, I didn't spend time with anyone. I felt empty, but it was easy…because I was used to it."

"That must have been really lonely," he comments with a grimace before bowing his head to drop a kiss on her shoulder.

"It was…but I was used to that too…from before I met Allison."

Lips immediately starting to quiver, Lydia takes another cleansing breath. She concentrates on Stiles – unwavering support of his legs beneath hers…keeping her afloat, and the solace of his arms encircling her…preventing her from drifting away.

"That night, something shifted inside me. I wasn't expecting to see you until we were back at school, but then…there you were…and when I saw you, all those moments between us from the year before…they just came rushing back. Moments like the night of the winter formal, how it felt when we danced, and how you caught me off-guard when you told me I was smart. Like the way you looked at me when we went ice skating, and what it was like to hold your hand…and the time you found me in my car when you told me that I shouldn't worry if people see me cry...and especially the things you said when I came to you for help about Jackson. All of those times you were so direct and open with me, all of the times you were so kind, so gentle, so understanding and patient…all of those subtle and not so subtle ways that you were weaving your way into my heart without me even realizing it – suddenly, they were all so clear."

Stiles stares at her, silently captivated, lips parted in awestruck comprehension.

"When you ran over to me after the accident, and you put your hands on my arms…I wanted more. Ever since then, every time we were together, I felt you taking hold of another piece of my heart…until it was completely yours. I tried not to let it happen…not to let you in, but you are kind of impossible to refuse," she admits with a pout. "You make me feel so good – like I can be more than I ever thought I could be. You make me feel…like I matter."

"You do matter. Lydia, you matter a whole lot…and you have a really tight grip on my heart too," Stiles reminds her with a kiss. "You have to know that."

"Yes, but you're strong in a way that I've never been. You know how to deal with emotions. I just get overwhelmed. So, as good as you are…and as gentle as you've always been with me, I don't…I don't think my heart is strong enough to hold the amount of love I feel for you…and that's why I feel like it is going to break."

And surprisingly enough, Lydia realizes she is okay with that.

"So, you mean…you love me _too much?"_

Her eyes brighten at the beautiful simplicity of his words. "Yeah, you could put it like that."

"I love you too much too, Lyds," he replies, matter-of-factly. "But I don't want the way you feel about me to hurt you."

She touches his cheek. "I know…and that's why being with you again has helped me figure out something else…something that's really important…that makes it all less frightening."

"What's that?"

"That loving you _too much_ is the only way I know how…but maybe that's the way it's supposed to be with us. So, if I love you so much that it breaks my heart, then…that's okay because you'll pick up the pieces, and you'll know how to put them together…" she punctuates the statement with a kiss on his forehead, "and when you do, I'll be stronger than I was…and I'll love you even more for it..." she kisses the corner of his mouth, "and I'll let you do it all over again. And one day, I'll be strong enough to hold all of that love…and Stiles, it will be because of you."

Lydia straddles his lap and kisses him, feather-light and extended in length. She concentrates on the heat and weight of his hands against the small of her back; palms pressed firmly to her skin, fingertips twitching under her camisole, like twigs kindling a fire. She reluctantly parts from his lips, looking down at him and repeatedly running her hands through his hair.

"I've held back for so long…out of fear…but I _can't_ do that anymore. I don't want to. Loving you is going to hurt sometimes, because I'll worry about you, and I'll miss you when we're apart, and I'll ache inside every time I fail to express just how much I feel for you. But none of that changes the fact that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I want to be with you. I'm ready to give you my heart."

"You're sure? I can wait…if you need more time."

"I don't need more time. I'm sure. I want to give you everything," she answers.

She follows her words with a kiss on the lips that is both delicate and passionate – and leaves Stiles wanting more. He nuzzles his cheek against hers, dizzy with love and lust because he understands the meaning behind her declaration.

"I'll take it," he whispers into her ear.

His hands travel – one glides downwards along the length of her spine, and the other continues upwards to the nape of her neck, so he can deepen their next kiss. Lydia reaches for the hem of his tee shirt and hungrily chases the fabric up and off of him. Her dainty hands are remarkably forceful, and he is spellbound by the way she is able to tap into his need to connect with every part of her body. Stiles shifts his attention, hooking his thumbs under the narrow straps of her camisole and sliding them out of the way, so he can scatter kisses all along the skin from her neck to her shoulder…and when he gathers a bit more confidence…in between her breasts. He can feel Lydia's heart beating rapidly against her sternum, throbbing against his lips. Her skin is smooth, like silk, and her body is pliable below his mouth. His rough hands are remarkably gentle, and Lydia marvels at how Stiles seems to know exactly how she wants to be touched. He returns to her neck, and she angles herself, granting him easier access, then tilting her face nearer his…kissing him anywhere and everywhere she can. Stiles directs his attention to her lips once again, then tightens his embrace until there is no longer any space between them and sighs into her mouth at the satisfying contact.

When they break from the kiss, they are both tempered by a heady sensation that fills their minds and a rushing pulse that occupies their hearts. They both know where this is leading, and it feels so right, so good to finally be in this place – where everything falls in line, where everything wrong can be made right again.

Stiles needs one last assurance. His voice is low and breathy as he lightly runs his hands up and down her thighs. "So, we're really doing this…right? I'm not dreaming. We're actually going to _be together_...a couple…or whatever you want to call us _?_ I mean…what if…?"

He cringes at the way he is rambling, but he can't help it. He has dreamed of this moment and now he is living it. Lydia is right in front of him, and she is gorgeous, and real, and she loves him the way he loves her.

"What if what, my love?" she asks just as breathlessly, ducking her head down to kiss the hollow at the base of this throat.

The affection she conveys awakens every cell in his body. He trembles underneath Lydia, his tone becoming raspy and unstable from the feeling of her warm lips and tongue against him, but he manages to say, "What if I mess us up? Lyds, I can't lose you again. I can't."

She distinguishes the upshot of nervousness in him, and she understands it because she is nervous too. She settles her hands on his bare chest, focusing on the furious strumming of his heart against her palms. The contact centers them both. The comfort Lydia has been longing to reclaim for weeks has returned…and they are just Stiles and Lydia once more. It reminds her that their connection is far more powerful than their fear. As if Stiles can read her thoughts, he stills in response. She presses another kiss to his lips, and he eagerly accepts it. When Lydia arches back to look at Stiles, his expression could only be described as one of complete and utter reverence – it erases any trace of fear left in her heart and gives her the words she needs to soothe him.

"I can't lose you either and you won't… _we_ won't. We'll take care of each other. Okay?" She kisses him again, letting her lips linger before turning her gaze to his eyes. "Just love me. Love me, and I will love you right back. Love me as much as you want to, and don't ever stop…because nothing feels as good as the way you are looking at me right now. Nothing feels as right as having your arms around me. Nothing feels as perfect as when you are kissing me. If we are together, everything will be fine."

With every word she speaks, Stiles lets go of another fragment of fear he has held. He focuses on the feeling of her body against his; small and delicate, but inconceivably strong and bracing. It's just the two of them again. Nothing else matters. He can't quite fathom how, in a matter of hours, his world transformed so completely. Yesterday, marked by unbearable heartbreak and darkness at the concept of facing life without Lydia. Today, reshaped by the complete bliss he has found in this moment, with Lydia's love radiating from within her like the brightest sunlight. _He loves her, he has always loved her, and he always will._ He is more certain of it with every beat of his heart – which is whole once more and securely in its place, now that Lydia is in his arms again. Apparently, time changes everything, yet leaves the purest elements untouched.

"Lydia?"

"Uh-huh…"

"You are better at dealing with emotions than you think."

She laughs. "I'm trying. When I have trouble…you'll help me though… Right?"

The casual and confident way Lydia has just asked Stiles for help, broadens the realm of possibility ahead. It dispels the last cloud of worry from his mind and fills his heart with hope.

"Yeah. I'll help you." He places his hands on both sides of her neck, thumbs resting against her jaw, expression full of intensity when he says, "I promise."

"Good," she replies, gliding her hands downwards to trace the lines of his abdominal muscles with her nails.

"Hey, Lyds?"

She lifts her glance to reconnect with his eyes, knowing that what Stiles is about to say is important. "Yeah?"

"There's one more thing I want."

"What's that?"

"I want _you_ …forever and always."

She smiles vibrantly, dimples and all, then plants her hands on his shoulders and gently eases him back onto the bed. "I want you too. Forever and always, Stiles. Forever and always."

Their promise is made bravely and wholeheartedly, without any doubt that they can honor it.

For Lydia, the fog that had been obstructing her view has finally lifted…and Stiles is with her, hand locked tightly in hers. The river she had been chasing…it ran dry and the path it carved through the landscape led her to Stiles – and he is not turning to leave.

For Stiles, the clouds miraculously parted…and Lydia, lovely as ever, is right within his reach. The waves that had threatened to sweep her away from him…they receded, yet Lydia has not drifted – and she is not turning away.

Every tender word they exchange washes their souls clean of all the hurt and all the misunderstandings. Every caress provides absolution for their faults and limitations. Every passionate kiss makes all that surrounds them fade away. First, her crystal lamp, his sweatshirt, their books on the bedside table, and pictures she framed. Next, the baseball he left on her desk months ago, sketches she drew weeks before, even the very bed beneath them. Then, her berry-colored walls – speckled with butterflies, and the crisp white door. Finally, the vaulted ceiling and pitched roof overhead follow suit.

Their entangled bodies vanish the houses in the neighborhood, douse streetlights, and clear the roads. Together they solve all the puzzles, vanquish evil intentions, expel demons, and lift every burden that had been imposing weight on their shoulders…until all that remains is Lydia and Stiles – _together._

When every last thing that confines them fades from consciousness, what remains is beautiful, and pure, and true; the power of their two young hearts – beating with love for each other, protected by a softening blue-black dome of sky above that is dotted with galaxies of stars and lighted by the vast golden moon…brilliant, and whole, and beaming with the promise that all can be forgiven – that _together_ , they can always _figure it out._


	13. Wake Up With Me

**Six Hours Later**

Stiles wakes slowly to a hint of light filtering through his eyelids, a plush pillow under his head, warm blankets covering his body, and the feeling of complete serenity. He opens his eyes to the most beautiful sight he has ever seen – _Lydia_. Lydia, shining like the bright morning sun. Lydia, curled up next to him – halo of strawberry-blonde waves surrounding her head as she sleeps, graceful lashes fluttering, freckles sprinkled like stardust below, full pink lips parted ever so slightly, and her dainty hand over his heart. He breathes deeply, her unique scent of vanilla and flowers filling his lungs and uplifting his soul.

Memories rapidly drift through his mind as he admires her, taking in her peaceful countenance for the first time in over a month. Stiles can't help from smiling as he remembers another first that happened only hours ago – their first time together, the only first time he fully experienced, the only first time that he will never forget.

He remembers Lydia – the girl of his dreams, with her tiny frame and soft curves pressed up against him in the quiet hours that pave the way to dawn. He remembers thinking he should have been nervous, but he wasn't. As soon as she wrapped her body around his, leading him down towards the bed, he felt calm. Calm with the unwavering belief that nothing had ever been more right. Call it fated, or kismet, or written in the stars – he was with Lydia, and she was with him. Lydia and Stiles. _Together._ A perfect combination.

There were kisses – lots of kisses – some short and hurried between swift movements that scattered clothing, others long and tender between caresses and lingering glances. He can still taste her mouth, sense her lips against his throat, feel the cool ringlets of her hair tickling his shoulders and her silky skin grazing against him as they moved. He remembers reaching to turn off the light…but Lydia stopped him. _I want us to see each other,_ she whispered…and see her, he did. He remembers the image of her – naked beneath him; exposed shyness and openness, rapt with desire.

Stiles remembers how they took their time, slowly familiarizing each other with their bodies; all the hesitation gone as her limbs coaxed him nearer and he willingly gave. Balance was restored – no longer overwhelmed by restless noise, nor distracted by numb silence. Instead he achieved complete clarity and focus, everything else fading away…until the only words on his mind were _Lydia_ and _more_.

He remembers the stillness after she guided him inside of her, how she gingerly touched his cheek, how she kissed him, soft and deliberate, before reaching for the center of his chest and rolling her hips to encourage him deeper. He remembers her expression, so bright and lovely that it made his eyes water. She worshiped him with her words and touches. She trusted him with her body, her heart, and her soul, and he has never felt more alive or been more grateful to find love in her eyes.

He remembers how she smiled as he brushed strands of copper from her face, how she giggled while he traced the insides of her thighs and the contours of her breasts with his fingertips, how she blinked with surprise when he kissed her scars and called her strong and beautiful. He remembers her quick shallow breaths, her flushed cheeks, her pale skin glistening as she took him higher and higher. He had the intense feeling that he was chasing his heart with every thrust; powerful heat flowing from her body to his, teaching him there are no limits to how deeply true love can burn.

She was above him, and beneath him, and she surrounded him. Her hands kept contact with him at all times, roaming the length of his body like it was fragile, precious, cherished, like he was all she ever wanted to touch. He remembers how she held onto him like she couldn't get close enough and would never get enough of him. He recalls the unmatched satisfaction of knowing that it was _his body_ drawing moans of pleasure from her lips – untamed, clandestine, blissed-out sounds, sounds that he will be dreaming about…and hopefully hearing for the rest of his life. He remembers the moment she came – the way her eyes flashed wider, blown pupils rimmed by a vibrant shade of green; the way her breath hitched in her throat with a lingering whimper that elevated as she clutched at his arms; the way her whole body quaked through their rhythm, sound of his name breezing past her lips…over, and over, and over again. She led him to the edge of the highest peak, and together they dove, bound by an unbreakable tether, plunging into warm waters, crystal clear and endless deep. He remembers stars catching his eyes from above, the crash of the waves below, and the ripples of tranquility that followed.

As he collapsed breathlessly alongside her, Lydia curled into him like a magnet, unblemished beauty inches from his face, her left leg hooked over his hip, her hands delicately tracing love notes across his ribs as she drowsily whispered in his ear…until sleep took hold and her palms settled above his heart – exactly as she is now.

 _Lydia is with him._ She is right next to him, but he misses her still. He needs to hear her voice, to see her eyes, and watch her smile. He needs _his Lydia_.

Lifting his right hand to gently caress her face, Stiles begins to quietly call her name, to coax her awake…the way he used to. "Lydia… Lydia… Lyds."

* * *

Lydia wakes to the feeling of a warm hand on her cheek and a familiar voice whispering her name. Her eyes slowly open to the most beautiful sight she has ever seen – _Stiles_. Stiles, shining bright as sunlight. Stiles, with his comforting arms around her, his soft sleepy eyes, cute upturned nose, tempting cupid's bow, and impeccable messy hair. Stiles, and his signature scent of pine needles and clean linen filling her lungs and stirring her soul to consciousness.

"Hi," he says softly, perfect crooked grin forming on his lips.

"Hi," she whispers through a smile.

"Are you real?" he asks sweetly.

"I think so," she replies with mild uncertainty, using her thumb to brush a stray fragment of sleep away from his eye. "Are you?"

"I'm not sure. Yesterday, I thought you were never going to talk to me again…and now look at us. I…I feel like I should be counting my fingers or something."

"Maybe we should…just to make sure," she suggests.

She holds up her hands, and he does the same, pressing their palms together. They count – interlocking their fingers, one digit at a time.

"One," they say in unison.

"Two."

"Three."

"Four."

"Five."

"Six."

"Seven."

"Eight."

"Nine."

"Ten," they finish together.

"Ten, Stiles...ten," she repeats, squeezing his hands and kissing his fingertips. Her voice cracks over his name, and her lips begin to tremble.

"Aww…Lydia…"

"I missed this _so much_ …waking up in your arms." Her throat tightens, and she purses her lips to stifle the cry that is about to escape as her insides shudder with emotion.

"Me too…so much, Lyds… _so much_." He leans in nudging the tip of her nose with his. "It's okay. We're together," he soothes.

Words fail, so she nods and tilts her head as Stiles lightly presses his lips to hers, lazily dragging them across every inch of her mouth, low moan escaping as he slides his tongue inside to greet hers. He kisses her slowly. He kisses and pulls back. Kisses and pulls back; intensely passionate pressure fading to barely perceptible pecks, then deepening once again. He takes his time, and though Lydia is aching for more, she resists the urge to change the pace. She wants Stiles to take lead because _she trusts him_.

She has never done this – cuddle with someone, sleep and wake next to a boy, lying naked and exposed. In accordance with an unwritten rule, she has always left a barrier, her clothing...an armor of sorts – a dress, a camisole, a bra. Afterwards, she would distance herself as much as she possibly could, and she would _never_ fall asleep.

Yet, here she is, with Stiles, in _his_ arms, after having peacefully slept next to him for hours, her body completely bared, completely…defenseless, and she has never felt more at ease, more protected, or more herself. With Stiles, she allows her mind to wander, mesmerized by the way he touches her; bare skin finding bare skin under the covers. He is an artist, painting a picture with his mouth, blending the colors with his hands, and she is the blank canvas, open and willing for whatever he has envisioned because _she loves him_.

Lydia's mind floods with memories from just a few hours ago. Memories of Stiles against her in the dim. Stiles, with his solid arms and long sleek muscles that she clung to, and took refuge in, and never wants to be parted from. Stiles, and his gentle hands that are capable of force, but which hold her like she is fragile, precious, cherished. He was above her, and beneath her, and inside of her. He radiated quiet confidence with every motion; enamored by the fact that he can figure out exactly how and when she wants to be kissed, and held, and touched. He faded away everything from her mind…until the only words on it were _Stiles_ and _more_.

She can't suppress a laugh as his lips make their way to the pulse point on her neck, and his mouth curls upwards in response. Maybe it isn't fair to compare, but she does. _People go on…and on about experience,_ but she has been with boys who had plenty of that, and none of it was worth a damn because none of them were Stiles. None of them cared the way he cares. For the first time, someone asked her what she wanted, what she needed, what felt good. For the first time, someone responded in ways that made her believe he could read between lines she didn't even know she was drawing.

She blushes at the memory of their first time – hands and mouths unhurriedly exploring until they discovered their own unique rhythm; bodies syncing up in movements, beats, and breaths. Saturated in love, Lydia was washed clean of a burden. The nagging hesitation that had been preventing her from moving forward drifted away, and she was finally and fully ready to accept everything Stiles had been offering all along – his body, his heart, and his soul.

She remembers how his shyness faded with every kiss, how he coddled her, and teased her, and worshiped every inch of her…gentle…gentle…delightfully less so at times. She remembers the moment he slid inside of her – deliberate fluid movement, liked he belonged there…and he does. She remembers the feeling of ecstasy and relief, how he filled her, excited her, made her whole and alive. She remembers his left eyebrow arched a mile high, wondrous smile on his beautiful mouth...like he just touched the sun.

She remembers his dark eyes, speckled with light, and dense lashes casting fine shadows over angled cheekbones and flushed cheeks. He took her further and further than ever before, erasing the scars of a month's long separation with every back and forth. He set her alight on the inside with a shimmering spark she could barely contain. Electric energy flowing directly from his body into hers, teaching her there are no limits to how intensely true love can burn.

She remembers the way she cried out when she came; tether tightening, undercurrent flowing through every inch of her, thunder pounding in her heart and lightning flashing in her eyes. She remembers how he followed shortly after with a thrust and a shudder, head bowed to hers, muscles flexing, and her name…an echoing growl…rolling across his tongue. She can still feel the lightness that arose from the pure act of witnessing his pleasure and the joy that came with knowing _her body_ was the source of it. She remembers lips, parted and wide, as their panting mouths connected to share a breath that transformed into a kiss.

After far too much distance, a newly revealed closeness took shape. Lying next to Stiles, she eased into the quiet, the stillness, and the limitless possibility of rising daybreak. Everything that had faded from her consciousness gradually reappeared with an unexpected richness and complexity. She remembers the familiar comfort of being securely tucked into the arms of the boy she loves and how that comfort rose to a higher level – his body not only steadfastly shielding her from the outside world, but also from the part of herself that thought she had to hide. The inner turmoil that she restlessly struggled with was finally losing its hold, allowing her to find freedom by exposing vulnerability to someone she trusts. She fell asleep to the soothing sensation of his hands caressing her back, and the lyrical beating of his heart underneath her palm.

By the time Stiles has completed his masterpiece, Lydia is dizzy and bleary-eyed. He pulls her close, because he knows she needs him, then wraps of every part of her in his infinitely perfect embrace. She returns the contact just as passionately because she knows he needs her too. She traces the curve of his spine with the pads of her fingers while he weaves his hands through her hair. They cling to each other for an extended length of time – _warm, and safe, and together, and so in love._

He kisses her cheek. "How'd you sleep? Any flashbacks?"

Another first, she realizes. "None... First time in over a month."

He shifts back, expression guilt ridden as he looks at her. "Every night…huh?"

Lydia quirks her mouth and shrugs.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you. Lyds, I—"

She puts her hand to his lips. "Shh…no more apologies. Okay? We're together now. That's all that matters."

He kisses her index finger which still hovers over his mouth. "Can I ask you something?'

"Sure," she answers, moving her finger to her own lips.

"What did you do when you woke up scared and…"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yeah."

"I'd cry for a while." Lydia can tell how much it hurts Stiles to hear this, and it imposes a sharp twinge below her ribs, but she knows she can ease his burden with the truth, so she does. "Then, I would lie on your side of the bed and read all of the notes you left me."

Stiles feels his throat tense and his heart swell at the revelation. "You kept them?"

"Every single one." She points over her shoulder towards the nightstand. "See that box…they're all in there."

He chews on his lower lip. "That's not _all_ of them…"

Lydia raises her eyebrow at him in question.

"I've got a month's worth of those in the Jeep."

Her heart rushes. _He never stopped_. "You do? You wrote me – all that time! Really?"

"Yeah…every day…sometimes more than once. They're yours if you want them."

"I do, Stiles. I want _all_ of them," she tells him, taking his face in her hands and pressing her smiling lips hard against his…once…twice…three times.

"Well, if they make you that happy, I'll go get them now," he replies with a vibrant grin as he begins to slide out from under the sheets.

"No!" she says a bit too loudly, stopping him by the shoulders, then catching the sound of her own desperation; emotions running wild. "I mean…later," she continues, actively working to gain control of her voice.

He sees it – the anxiety in her eyes, the kind he put there when he left her, made her feel abandoned, made her doubt him, and it hurts to recognize it. Taking her hands from his shoulders, Stiles lightly kisses her palms before he speaks, trying to be as reassuring as possible. "Lydia…you know I'll come back… Right?"

She hesitates, sucking in her bottom lip. "Yes, I do. I didn't mean to—"

"It's alright. I know saying it isn't enough. It's going to take time."

She sees it - the disappointment in his eyes, the kind that is riddled with self-blame, tells him he hurt her too much, makes him doubt her trust in him. She can't have him thinking that, when it couldn't be further from the truth.

"It's not that. I trust you. You promised, and I believe you. I'm just…feeling a lot of things right now…and I want you with me. _Please stay._ I want you to stay and kiss me some more. We've got at least a month's worth of kissing to make up for."

He is looking at her, in the reverent way that he does, like she just broke his heart and put it back together at the same time. It reminds Lydia that his heart is fragile, like hers, but it's resilient too. She can feel how much she needs him, and when he relaxes and smiles, tilting his head up to kiss her forehead, she can feel how much he needs her too.

"Stiles."

"Mmm…"

"Lower."

He kisses the tip of her nose.

"A little lower."

He nuzzles his nose against her cheek and angles his face, capturing her lips with his.

"Perfect," she says into his mouth. _Because he is._

"Yeah…you are," he whispers. _Because she is._

"Stiles."

"Hmm…"

"More."

As Stiles rolls her onto her back, Lydia's gaze drifts upwards; bright white butterflies on the wall above to match the ones in her stomach. He lies next to her, propped up on his left arm while his opposite hand glides forward and finds its place, heavy and hot on her belly. The connection guides her eyes back to his. He is looking at her like he can see right inside – past translucent skin, torn muscle, and fragile bone – right into the very heart of her. He is looking at her, seeing past all of the damage, to the part that wants to courageously unravel – for him and because of him; to bravely open like a snowdrop flower in early spring, despite the persistent threat of frost. He is looking at her like she is the most beautiful, hallowed, and beloved thing he has ever seen…and it feels so unbelievably, irresistibly good. _She needs him._ She needs the feeling of _his hands_ gripping her hips, the sensation of _his lips_ gliding over hers, and the feathery light brushing of _his abdominal muscles_ against hers as he relentlessly grinds into her. He edges closer, warm skin and taut muscle leaning into her side, face colored with desire. His hands start to travel, and he is perfectly hard against her thigh. _She wants him_. She wants _her Stiles_ …again. She is pretty sure it will consume her, the love she has for him, and more than anything – she wants to let it.

Lydia's body is warm and inviting, her eyes focused directly on his. She is looking up at him like she has found something that she has been searching for all her life. She is looking at him like he is the answer to every question she ever had. She is looking at him the way he has always dreamed she could do – filled with certainty and honesty, with readiness and awe, with longing and lust, with tenderness and love… _so much love_. He can feel it – so present, so pure, and so true. Lydia is real, and she chose to be with him…and it feels so completely, incomprehensibly good, better than he ever imagined. _He needs her._ He needs the feeling of _her delicate hands_ grazing against his back, the contact of _her smooth curves_ arching up to meet him, and the sensation of _her whole body_ tightening around him. She presses nearer, soft skin and open arms winding around him, body relaxed and calling out just for him. _He wants her._ He wants _his Lydia_ …again. He thinks it will devour him, the love he has for her – but he wouldn't have it any other way.

They give in. Lose themselves in each other, bodies pulled and locked together in an endless loop of _need_ and _want_.

Stiles swiftly reaches back, grabbing the sheets and pulling them overhead while sliding Lydia downwards with him until they are both tented, head to toe, in downy cotton. Daylight flares through the windows, reflecting off the mirrored surfaces of the dresser and vanity. It casts radiant beams around the room that glow directly through the pale grey fibers of Stiles and Lydia's makeshift cocoon. He gazes at her, taking in every inch of her body as though committing it to memory. She melts into him, staring at the smile on his face, clutching at his jaw, and bringing him down to her lips.

When they collide, it's novel, yet familiar at the same time; skin on skin, tangled legs, and interlaced fingers underneath crisp cool fabric and a cloud of free-flowing passion. The mattress cradles them as they sway, excitement soaring with every breath, beads of sweat rolling down his spine to match the ones trickling across her chest, bodies tensing as they take each other higher and higher one more time. They reach the top together, murmuring over the sound of their own heartbeats pounding in their ears, panting and trembling through the rush of pleasure, then relishing in the joy they find in each other before settling into the pleasant aftermath.

Stiles tosses the sheets aside and lies down, towing Lydia with him, a loud sigh escaping his lips as he pronounces her name. "Lydia…how in the hell is it possible for anything to feel this amazing?"

"I was wondering the same thing," she agrees, taking a few stippled breaths as she leans closer, throbbing pulse of her orgasm just starting to wane as she reflexively stretches her body beside him.

"Really?" he asks.

She nestles her head in the crook of his shoulder, placing one palm flat against his chest. "Yeah…completely new experience for me."

Eyes pointing towards the ceiling, his expression is one of genuine thoughtful surprise.

"Stiles."

"Yeah?"

Lydia waits for his eye contact before continuing, "I've never felt _anything_ like this."

"Is it wrong for me to be happy about that?" he inquires timorously.

"No," she answers, biting her lip through a smile.

"Good. By the way...same here… _nothing_ in my life has ever felt this incredible…and not just the sex. I mean, yeah...obviously… _wow_ …but being this close to you – it's unreal."

"I know what you mean," she concurs.

He rests his cheek on her forehead and envelops her with both arms, and it feels natural – to be this transparent and unrestricted with each other.

"Hey, Lyds?"

"Hmm…"

"When was the last time you ate anything?"

"Uh…lunch…yesterday."

"Me too. You hungry?"

"Yeah."

"Wanna make breakfast together?"

"I bet we have everything we need for blueberry pancakes," she tells him, heart synchronizing to the steady beat Stiles taps on the small of her back with his thumb, "but first…I need to shower." She kisses his chest, slides out from his embrace, and crosses the room to the adjoining bathroom. Sensing that his eyes are watching her, Lydia flirtatiously glances over her shoulder. "Stiles…what are you waiting for? There's room for two," she informs him with a wink, waves of strawberry-blonde bouncing behind her as she steps out of view.

He looks down at his hands and takes a quick count from one to ten. Pleasantly satisfied by the confirmation that he is indeed awake, Stiles leaps from the bed…only getting caught in the jumbled sheets for a second or two, then follows her into the bathroom.

Lydia is already at the sink, blue toothbrush in one hand, tube of mint-flavored paste in the other.

"You don't happen to have an extra, do you?" he asks.

She silently smiles; the brand-new orange toothbrush that she felt compelled to buy several months earlier suddenly making perfect sense. She reaches into the medicine chest, locates it, and presents it to Stiles with an open palm, as though it magically appeared. He takes the toothbrush in one hand and catches her wrist with the other, turning her hand over to kiss the skin above her knuckles. It takes every bit of Lydia's inner strength to hold it together, to keep from dissolving into a puddle at his feet on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, but she manages. She simply gazes at Stiles, hoping to convey as much love as possible with one look – the way he does. She thinks her attempt must pale in comparison, yet Stiles seems to understand because he tugs on her hand and pokes at his lip with his tongue, fighting the water in his eyes as he rapidly blinks. They both take a full rejuvenating breath then stand side by side, brushing their teeth, each mesmerized by the other's reflection in the mirror.

Minutes later, Stiles rinses his mouth and moves to stand behind Lydia as she sets down her toothbrush. "This probably won't come as a shock to you, but I've never showered with anyone," he admits.

"Then this is a first for both of us," she admits, watching him fight a smile at her response and enjoying the fact that he is glad to hear it.

He leans down to press his cheek to hers. "Do I get to use your fancy shampoo?"

"If you like. Shea butter and jasmine…or apples and aloe?"

"Surprise me," he says, smoothing his hands over her hips and tracing his fingers along the creases of her thighs.

"Stiles, if you keep that up…we are never going to get to breakfast," she reprimands weakly, stepping out of his reach and into the shower.

He trails close behind and draws the curtain as Lydia regulates the water temperature. Their eyes meet in silent communication, both realizing the unexpected normality of it all – as though they have done this, countless times beforehand. They let the feeling settle in, both of them _warm_ , and _safe_ , and _together_ , and _so in love._

Stiles washes his hair, while Lydia lathers his back. She carefully observes how his muscles shift under clouds of soap suds and trickling veins of water as he moves. Admiring the distinct pattern of moles that adorn his shoulder blades and spinal column, she touches each with her fingertips while trying to imprint them into her mind.

"Lyds, you're slacking off back there. Are you checking out my ass?" he teases.

"Maybe…" she hints, "wouldn't be the first time."

He whips around to face her, swiping the stream of water from his face. "Lydia Martin!" he exclaims; amazed but visibly flattered.

"Well…it's your own fault," she fires playfully.

"And how do you figure that?" he asks, molding his strong hands around her hips and making her stomach clench with need as he dips his right thumb into her navel.

"Two words for you, Stilinski – RED. PANTS," she enlightens, punctuating her last two words with kisses.

After a delayed moment, with only the static hum of running water filling the air, Stiles throws his head back and laughs. Droplets rain down as his shoulders shake and a gorgeous open-mouthed smile breaks across his lips. Lydia has not heard him laugh like this for far too long. Crisp, sparkling, and exuberant, like a brilliant display of fireworks that shatters the silence and darkness of night, the sound illuminates their shared space…and it is beautiful. _He is beautiful._ Stiles sounds like home…and she loves it. _She loves him._

He moves forward, planting a kiss on her neck and sucking at the water that has been pooling on her collar bone, before pressing his cheek to hers. "So…now, I know the real reason you kissed me that day," he whispers into her ear, making her tingle with want at the memory.

"You got me," she replies, glancing down at their hands while she winds their fingers together.

Stiles hunches down to meet her gaze, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Yeah, I've got you," he affirms with tender pride and so much love in his eyes.

Whether it's the earnest emotion on his face, the depth of sincerity in his words, or a combination of the two, something inside Lydia starts to lift. It starts low, in the tips of her toes and steadily rises. It simmers and spreads, bubbles through her veins, encircles her heart, and fills her mind. It's strong yet unassuming, soft but undeniable, and inch by inch…it takes hold of her soul, like the last warm night of summer or the first blanket of snow in winter. It's a serene kind of euphoria that she has never experienced, and it's something so precious she never wants to let go. If she had to give it a label, she thinks it's called BLISS.

When the tugging at his heart reaches a heightened intensity, Stiles steps closer to Lydia. He immediately detects something different about her. She is looking up at him with a curious expression – emerald irises flaring, freckles twinkling over dazzling pink cheeks, corners of her mouth aiming towards the sky, dimples popping. She is still _his Lydia_ , but stripped of all her defenses, she appears open and ready to accept all the love he has been wanting to give her for as long as he can remember…and it is beautiful. _She is beautiful._ Lydia looks like she is lit from within…and he loves it. _He loves her._

Stiles is on the verge of tears when he realizes that the misting in his eyes has little to do with how good he feels. It's because, after all of the pain she has endured, Lydia looks happy – genuinely happy, and it's the most magnificent scene he has ever witnessed. As if that weren't enough to send his heart reeling, Stiles sees something else. _He makes her happy._ He truly sees it now. _It's real_ – and the revelation makes his world expand with possibility.

As she reaches for the shampoo, Stiles circles her wrist with long slippery digits. "Can I?" he asks.

Lydia smiles and nods. A sudden flash of nervous energy awakens in her, but she turns her back to him and relinquishes control. Her eyes fall shut as she focuses on the sensation of his hands in her hair. Stiles takes his time; soapy hands massaging her scalp, every so often ghosting over the skin of her neck and shoulders, sending waves of pleasure throughout her body. She gives him pointers on how to apply her conditioner because, by his own admission, Stiles has _no freakin' clue what to do with this stuff._ He is so gentle and attentive as he works that Lydia can actually feel the love radiating from his fingertips. Emotion brims inside of her with every drop of water that descends from the shower head, with every affectionate kiss and caress he gifts her in between.

By the time Stiles rinses the conditioner from Lydia's hair and washes her back, the memories start to flow…

Good memories of friendship and support, of respect and kindness, of understanding and love – _so much love_. Love proven by unwavering presence, without fail, without question, without need of a score card. Love that stretches from late nights to early mornings spent sprawled on the floor with open books, empty pizza boxes, and tangled lengths of color-coded string. Love expressed by driving the long way home with the windows rolled down, and through songs sung low with the radio blasting high. Love given through bear-hugs, linked arms, tightly held hands, and kisses both platonic and romantic. Love offered in an olive-green scarf, a rambling conversation, framed drawing, lilac flower, or fragment of notebook paper. Love reflected in the careful hands, golden-brown eyes, and irresistible smile of a boy climbing through her bedroom window. Countless happy memories, all because of the three most important people in her life – Allison, Scott, and Stiles. _Stiles._

But there are also lifeless hollow memories shaped in years of loneliness, hiding behind a mask of false confidence and indifference – before she embraced a life with Allison, Scott, and Stiles. _Stiles._

Hopelessly bleak memories marked by the dull ache of longing – longing for an unknown peace she could not name. _Stiles._

Dreadful memories of paralyzing fear, blood curdling screams, and searing pain. Peter with his wicked glowing eyes, smiling as he sunk his teeth into her side and disturbingly stoic as he wrought control over her mind. Jennifer with the sardonic sound of her cryptic voice as she tightened the garrote around Lydia's neck. An Oni with its vicious frozen expression forcing a sword into Allison's stomach, spilling her blood and making Scott cry. The Nogitsune with its sinister thirst for chaos, pain, and strife, maliciously trying to persuade Stiles to take his own life. _Stiles._

Devastating memories of loss and despair. Allison drawing her last breath in Scott's open arms, her heart slowing to a stop as he begged her to stay. Stiles collapsing beneath Lydia's own horrified body in the tunnels. Stiles slipping away from her…like water rushing down the drain. _Stiles._

Lydia's own words echo in her mind – words she spoke just a few hours ago. _If we are together, everything will be fine._ Words that were meant to reassure Stiles are now taunting her. An overwhelming sense of dread begins to compile. She tries to rein it in, but it is spreading through her veins at a rapid pace. _But what if we aren't together?_ _What if I lose him? I can't lose him. Not him – not again._

She is trapped. Trapped in a town, ruled by evil forces that delight in her misery. Trapped in a place she may never escape. A place that refuses to let her be happy with the boy she loves – the boy who started carving his name in her heart with a show of concern, an interested ear, and a promise fulfilled on a cold December afternoon when they were only eleven years old. _Stiles._

She fears that she lives in a world that is too cruel – _too cruel_ to let her keep him. Someone or _something_ will take Stiles away from her.

Her vision blurs, her heart races, and her lungs constrict. She is cold, _so cold_ , all the life drifting out of her at the thought of losing him.

Stiles startles when he sees Lydia flinch; their moment of harmony abruptly cut short. His eyes widen as one of her hands moves up to her throat and the other clutches at her side, her entire body shivering uncontrollably.

"Lydia?" he calls, hands immediately finding their way to her waist.

She doesn't answer. Her right hand finds the marble tile of the shower wall, her left swings in reverse, loosely catching Stiles at the middle of his back as she doubles over in pain. His arms immediately encircle her; mind fixed on a six-year-old promise: _Don't let her fall._

"Lydia, w-what's happening?" Stiles stammers, words splintering with concern while he pulls her tense body firmly against his.

"I…I can't breathe…I can't…I can't," she gasps.

He turns her to face him, expression stricken with worry and anguish at the sight of her distress, "Okay…okay, it's gonna be alright."

She cries unreservedly, arms locked between them as her trembling hands grasp for his chest, desperately searching for a heartbeat. _Is he real? Is he alive? Maybe I'm still in the tunnels._

Stiles holds Lydia to him with one arm and claims her face with the other. He is so solid that she feels weak, and she loves him so much that she has to look away. Her heart thumps more forcefully while her knees go liquid soft, causing her feet to slide across wet porcelain.

"Lydia, look at me. Shh, look at me. Shh, Lydia," he soothes.

Her eyes are like they were on the day of Allison's funeral – begging him to understand, pleading with him to help her. This time, Stiles is sure he knows what she wants him to do. He inhales sharply…

…and as he exhales into her mouth, Lydia's lungs expand to their fullest capacity. Stiles breathes the life back into her, and everything else fades away. She closes her eyes and leans into him, returning the kiss with equal fervor as he gradually builds her up again.

When Stiles pulls back, Lydia is left awestruck by the healing power of his kiss. His eyes are glossy and bright, warming her with their intensity. Water cascades from his face to hers, then skims along and runs off of her skin. Her breath evens out and she draws her arms around him, positioning her ear above the familiar nook at the midpoint of his ribs, searching…still searching…then finally finding that mesmerizing rhythm that lightens all of her sorrows. Turning her head inwards, Lydia presses her lips to the slick center of his chest, over and over again, through a series of sobs and hiccups before dropping her cheek flush against his sternum and working to match her breaths with his.

He counts her kisses – one, two, three, four, five – the same as the number of letters in her name. As far as Stiles is concerned, Lydia may as well be engraving her name into his chest because he is going to remember the love she is transcribing for the rest of his life. It sinks deep into his bones imparting him with the knowledge that she needs him, just as much as he needs her.

Holding her securely under a thick haze of steam and hot water, he braces her with his body and speaks lovingly into her ear. "Aww…my sweet Lydia… It's okay… It's okay. It's just us."

"Stiles. Stiles. Stiles," she repeats, whimpering into his skin, blooming with a mixture of relief and wanting.

She feels helpless like this – so frail and lost, so wildly emotional that she can't get control of herself, but so weary of suppressing that she doesn't care to try. Lydia squeezes Stiles with every ounce of her strength, wishing she could protect him from harm through sheer will…and if that's not enough, then to run away with him, leave this place that seems determined to hurt him, curl up together in some pristine corner of the world and never look back.

It's all too much – the memories, the hurt, the love – so much love that she can't contain it, and she can't let him go. _Her heart is breaking._

He continues to try to soothe her through the ache, wishing for magic words that would take her pain, words that might remind her that she is not alone in the world and rekindle the happiness she emanated just moments earlier.

"It's okay. I'm here. I love you, and we're together," he assures her.

Lydia calms immediately, the influence of his words binding her open wounds. "You're here, and you love me, and we're together," she repeats.

Stiles kisses her head and leans back to shut the water. She sways, hands clasped to the sides of his ribs like he is the only thing keeping her upright.

"That's right…hold onto me. I won't let you fall."

Quickly, he withdraws the shower curtain, reaches for a towel, slips it under her arms and secures it around her body. With another, he pats her face, arms, and shoulders dry before wrapping it around his own waist. He steps out of the shower, never loosening his grip as he guides Lydia out on her shaky legs. Then, he gingerly lifts her left arm over his shoulders.

"Stiles, I can walk," she insists.

"Shh…I know you can," he answers, ignoring her reflex to resist help.

Supporting her back with one arm, he slides the other under her legs and carefully picks her up, noting how tightly she clings to him. Then, he carries Lydia into her room where he sits on the bed, cradling her in his lap.

"Okay now?" he asks gently.

She shrugs.

Lydia's cheeks are uncomfortably hot, so she keeps her head down, but Stiles coaxes her to face him.

"Hey, remember what we promised? No hiding. Tell me what's going on in there," he nudges, tapping at the center of her chest with his index finger.

She wants to say _kiss me first_ , to rush past the difficult parts, and skip ahead to what feels good, but as soon as she looks into his eyes, she realizes what a mistake that would be. Stiles is offering nothing but love and concern, and Lydia responds to him, because he gives her exactly what she needs most – himself. He diminishes her stubborn impulse to withhold, to hide. She knows it – the only way to heal is to show Stiles everything – not just the outside, but the inside too…even the things that make her feel unstable, and weak, and just plain crazy. She can see that the way to move forward is not just to ask for help, but to let Stiles give her the help she needs.

He relaxes as he senses some of the tension leaving her body, drifting into the air after an exhale of pent up emotion. He recognizes that Lydia needs to let go in her own time, so he bumps the tip of her nose with his, and patiently waits for her to open up.

"Stiles," she breathes. "Stiles, I'm scared."

He uses his hand to wipe her tears. "Do you want to tell me what happened? 'Cause...you looked so happy and then…"

"I was… _I am_ …but…I don't know… It all fell apart. You were being so sweet, and everything felt so good…and then I started having all these memories. I was remembering you and all of these beautiful moments between us…and I was thinking about Allison and Scott, and the four of us spending time together. But then something shifted, and all of the awful things…Peter…and Jennifer…and what happened to Allison…and, Stiles…in the tunnels…how you almost…"

She can't say the word. She can't say _died_ and _Stiles_ in the same sentence. It's too horrible, too painful. It's her worst nightmare.

"All of those terrible memories…they just started pushing their way into my mind. It's like I'm not allowed to be happy. I think it's starting to hit me – how real this is, and it's all _so much_ …there are so many feelings…that I…I don't know what to do with them."

"You haven't changed your mind about us." It's affirmation rather than a question – because he knows.

"You're right, I haven't. I _want_ to be with you, _more than anything,_ and we've spent too much time apart already. But remember what we talked about...about my heart breaking?"

"Yeah."

"That's how I feel right now. Us being together…this is _so good._ Stiles, it's _perfect,_ and I want to enjoy it…but at the same time I'm _so scared_. I'm trying not to be. I can't seem to stop myself though… It's like it takes over."

He tucks a length of dripping wet hair behind her ear, corners of his mouth slightly turned under. "What takes over?"

"The fear of losing you," she discloses with a shudder.

"In what way?"

"I wasn't completely honest with you when I told you what my nightmares were about. They weren't only about Allison and the Nogitsune. They were about you – losing you. No matter how it played out…every time, _every single time_ , something…some- _thing_ that I can't even see always took you away from me." She drops her head to his shoulder and brings both arms around his neck. "The more I want to hold onto you, the more I feel like you are going to just disappear."

He returns her embrace passionately. "Lydia, I'm not going anywhere. Okay? Wild horses couldn't drag me away."

She straightens, shaking her head and planting her hands on his shoulders. "What if they do? This place…Stiles… _this place_ …it's always something."

"I know…but listen, even if they did…I'd come back to you. I mean, look at what we've been through already. There are so many things that could have kept us apart and somehow, we always manage to find our way back to each other. A few weeks ago, I was dying…but _you_ pulled me back, Lydia. When we were in the tunnels, everything was getting darker and further away, but I could still feel you holding me…and it made me want to fight harder because I didn't want to leave you."

"You felt me?"

Stiles nods and rests his forehead against Lydia's as he closes his eyes and remembers. "Yeah…I knew you were with me. I sort of always do. There's this…like a tugging sensation around my heart."

She purses her lips quickly. "I feel it too. All the time."

Her words open his eyes. Her bottom lip comes into view, and she is so close that he can't help but give her a kiss. Her hands weave into the damp strands of his hair as she sighs into him. He lets his mouth linger against hers, reveling in the intimacy that has developed between them before he speaks again.

"Look." He picks up her hand and laces their fingers together. "We're linked…the two of us. Remember what Deaton said…the night of the eclipse…about emotional tethers?"

"Yes. He said you had to be with someone who could pull you back, someone that has a strong connection to you…and then he said I should go with you."

"Exactly. Lyds, I was gone for more than sixteen hours and _you_ brought me back. I think you could bring me back from anything."

"I'd rather not lose you in the first place."

"Me too…but no matter what, I'll always come back to you."

Her eyes fill with love. "Promise?"

"I promise."

Tiny particles of water mixed with tears suspend from the ends of her eyelashes as she blinks. She bites her lip, fighting against embarrassment with an apology, "I'm sorry I freaked out."

Stiles rubs her lower back with his palm, heat of his hand passing directly through the thickness of her towel. "Hey, you're talking to a guy who has panic attacks on the regular. You don't have to be embarrassed. It's alright. I understand."

He kisses her cheek, and she immediately leans into the contact.

"You've been afraid for a long time, haven't you?" he asks.

She nods.

"Did you think I expected everything to change overnight…for all that fear to just evaporate?"

"I don't know. I'm so tired of feeling this way…so, I kind of hoped it would."

His eyebrows cinch together as he gives her an upside-down smile. "Would be nice, but I don't think it works that way. It's going to take time for both of us…'cause…I'm just as afraid of losing you. Honestly, I think there will always be a part of us that is worried about losing each other…but we can't let it pull us apart again."

"How do we do that?"

"This is a good start...facing it together. When you're scared, all you have to do is tell me, and when I am, I'll tell you…and we can talk about it, until we feel better and then it won't seem so big. What do you think?"

"That sounds really smart."

"You know what else could help?"

"What?"

"Making out for a while. I think that would definitely help us be less scared," he suggests, sneaking a kiss on the side of her neck below her jaw – a place that he recently learned, will always evoke a smile from her…if given the right attention.

"I like that idea too…a lot," she confesses through a grin.

"We're going to be alright, Lyds. I know it."

And he does know – no matter what, he is going to be with her. He is never letting Lydia drift away again. And she believes it – they are going to be okay, because Stiles always tells her the truth.

"I love you _so much_. Tell me you know that too," she pleads, cupping his face in her hands.

"I do. I know you love me."

"How?"

"The same way I know I love you – _I can feel it._ It's part of me."

There is a calm self-assurance about the way he speaks, and just like that, the boy who doubted she could love him vanishes before her very eyes. She will always love that boy. _Always._ She will forever admire the unassuming courage in him – his ability to bravely wear is heart on his sleeve, to offer his love to her on pieces of notebook paper, even though he realized it might never be accepted – but it's time to say good-bye to him, because there is no place for doubt between them now.

She moves her hands to his chest, concentrating on the rise and fall as he breathes. "But is it enough though? I mean…it's _one_ word, it doesn't seem like enough to describe what you are to me. Stiles, you are my whole world."

He shakes his head. Lydia is telling him what he has dreamed of hearing and it is breaking his heart…and strengthening it at the same time, helping him figure it out – the solution, the way he can help her.

"Lydia, I don't think I can put into words what that means to me. All I ever wanted was to be there for you…to be someone you could trust, the person you talk to and rely on…someone who could make you happy."

"Well you are…and you do. You are everything to me… _everything_."

"I'm not," he corrects her, shifting his legs as he straightens up a bit.

"Don't say that. Stiles, I—"

"Listen to me… Okay? I am _not_ the only one who loves you. I need you to understand that. You have so many people that care about you. Scott is one of those people. You know that. He loves you – so much. Melissa loves you too…and Chris, and Danny…he asked about you every day that you weren't in school. And there's Deaton, and Kira…you two don't know each other that well yet…and no one will ever take Allison's place, but she is a really good person and she wants to be there for you. Hey, even that pain-in-the-ass, Lahey is smart enough to love you…and don't forget my dad. He loves you too."

"He does?" she questions, with a tilt of her head. "Even after..."

"Of course he does. God…how could he not? He knows what you mean to me, and he knows you saved my life. He couldn't love you more if you were his own daughter. One of the worst things about when we were apart was having to tell him."

"I miss him."

"He's been missing you too. I know it. Having you with us made such a difference, and you are important to all of us…not just my dad and me. So, my point is…sure, I want to be everything you need – but I'm not all you have. Lyds, you have an entire family, and none of us are going to let you down. There are no conditions or exceptions. We are going to be here for you because we love you…and we always will – no matter what. Okay?"

With every word, he is weaving himself tightly into the tattered fibers of her heart, mending them, making them stronger. _Stiles is putting her heart back together again – just like she knew he would._

"Okay," she sniffles.

He hugs her, and she closes her eyes; both of them _warm, and safe, and together, and so in love._

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Before…you called me sweet," she whispers.

"I did."

Lydia opens her eyes again, lashes fluttering along with her heart when she says, "No one's ever called me that."

"Better get used to it…because you are, and that's what I'm going to call you…whether you like it or not."

"Well…I don't hate it," she admits through a half-smile.

"That's my girl." He kisses her dimples and smiles thoughtfully at her. "I'm not sure about you, but I'm starving. What do you say you go pick out some hot looking underwear, so I can admire you while we make breakfast?"

"Okay," she agrees with a fresh lightness in her tone.

Then, she gets up from his lap, leading him towards her dresser. As she opens the top drawer, he stands behind her, hands immediately coming to rest at her waist.

"What if…" she begins.

Stiles waits, dropping his chin to her shoulder.

Angling her face so she can see his expression, she continues. "Why don't you choose?"

"Seriously?" he responds with a gleam in his eyes.

She nods.

"Alright..." he answers, browsing the contents of her drawer, eyes scanning over satin, lace, and cotton in every hue of the rainbow, "How about…this?" He points to a deep-blue lace bralette and matching bikinis. As she holds them out in front of her, he remarks, "That's pretty."

"So are you."

"Come on, Lyds…"

"You are," she reaffirms, taking his face in her hands. "Stiles you're beautiful…everything about you."

"You're gonna make be blush," he says, grinning brightly.

"Good. I love it when you do that," Lydia tells him, as she releases his face and drops her towel to the floor.

She makes a show of wiggling into her underwear, enjoying the way Stiles watches her as well as the way he instinctively reaches to fasten the closure of her bra without her even having to ask. When he drops a few kisses between her shoulder blades, Lydia can't refrain from giggling.

He turns her to face him, pressing her entire body against his. "I'm never going to get enough of you."

"You had better not," she retorts, sliding out of his arms, picking up her towel, and stepping over to the vanity. She squeezes the excess water out of her hair with the towel, grabs a leave-in spray, and mists it through the length of her strands. Then she combs it through, scrunching the ends with her palms and leaving it to air-dry.

Stiles stands motionless for a few moments, watching her apply floral-scented body cream like it is the most fascinating thing he has ever seen. He almost can't believe he gets to see her like this – so at ease and so unguarded with him. He is sure he will never get enough of this either.

As he collects some of their scattered clothing from the floor she asks, "Can I wear your shirt?"

Stiles pulls his mouth into a frown. "The point is to _see_ the underwear…not cover it up."

"I won't button it."

"Alright…if you must," Stiles concedes, tossing his shirt to her.

She catches the red and navy plaid and slips into it with a sigh. Soft and familiar; it smells like him and it feels like home. Neatly rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to her elbows, she gazes at Stiles while he dries the residual moisture from his arms and chest, then puts on his boxers and navy-blue tee shirt. He crosses the room to her, takes her hand, and together they head out of her bedroom, into the hallway, and down the long staircase to the first floor.

When they pass the big picture window in the living room, Lydia spots the Jeep parked out front like it belongs there…and she smiles because it does.

* * *

In the kitchen, Prada is quietly waiting for them beside her water bowl, ears perked, head quirked to one side, innocently wagging her tail despite the fact that her toys are scattered all over the floor.

"Aww…my baby!" Lydia exclaims, picking up the pup and cuddling her. "I'm sorry we made you wait." She looks to Stiles, eyes luminous in a vivid shade of green. "She must have been _so_ bored!"

Stiles chuckles as he massages the Papillon's ears. "Poor thing. We'll make it up to you though… I think one plain, Prada-sized pancake is in order. Don't you?" he offers.

Prada nuzzles her nose into his hand like she understands. Then, Lydia sets her down on the floor, refreshes her water, collects all of her toys…except the yellow duck, and places them in a basket on the opposite side of the room.

As they begin to make breakfast, Lydia and Stiles immediately step in sync, working with and around each other with ease. Stiles makes pancakes with Claudia's recipe because he memorized it…just in case. When he makes a show of flipping the pancakes, Lydia can't help but smile fondly because there is no trace of arrogance or conceit in him…and because it's adorable… _and because she loves him._ She takes extra care setting their places at the island, then brews coffee and cooks scrambled eggs the way Stiles likes them. The pair touch often and speak little, simply taking it all in, more than somewhat in awe. There is no room for hurt or misunderstanding between them anymore. They are just Lydia and Stiles – two people who would do anything for each other, doing something completely ordinary, like preparing a meal, _together_.

They sit down at the marble-topped island, Lydia on the left, Stiles on the right, so they can hold hands while they eat. Every once in a while, he raises their joined hands to his lips because even the way she eats breakfast is beautiful…and because he can… _and because he loves her._ They remain in silence for a good portion of the time, comforted by the idyllic proximity they have been denied for far too long.

When they are nearly done with their meal, Stiles clears his throat. "So…when is your mom coming back?"

"Not for another _five_ days," she replies, squeezing his hand and smiling into her coffee cup at the thought of five more nights with Stiles.

"That's…convenient," he comments, mouth curling up on one side for a few seconds, then dropping to a solemn line. He scratches at his jaw, then speaks again. "I…uh…didn't mention her earlier…because I figured you didn't want to talk about her just then but—"

"You were right," she quickly interrupts.

"Lydiaaa…" he groans, glancing sideways at her over his shoulder.

"What?" she asks, hint of unintended sharpness in her tone.

"You _know_ what."

She keeps her eyes on her pancakes, poking at a blueberry with her fork. "Stiles, do we _have_ to talk about this now? I'm not trying to shut you out. _I swear."_ Laying her fork on top of her napkin, Lydia props her elbow next to her plate and drops her cheek into her palm. "I just want to enjoy being with you. Is that so wrong?"

"No, it's not but—"

"I'm not really in the mood to analyze my mother's refusal to be present in my life." Her attempt to sound cool and unaffected is in vain.

Stiles twists his chair around and reaches to swivel her seat towards him until they are face to face. "Lydia, you know she loves you…right?"

She remains quiet, unwanted upsurge of tears betraying her. She can feel the weight of his eyes on her, gold flecks privy to every color inside of her. Instead of looking away, she instinctively meets his stare because she promised she wouldn't hide anything from Stiles and truth be told, she doesn't want to.

"I guess so…but she showed me that when it really matters, I can't rely on her." Putting her hands on his neck and caressing his jaw, she continues, "Stiles, thanks to your dad, you'll never understand what that's like. He is _always_ there for you...no matter what…and I'm _so_ glad, because you deserve to have someone as incredible as him in your life—"

"You deserve that too," he interjects.

"I used to have it," Lydia reminiscences with a huff, briefly looking up at the ceiling. "But now, something is broken between us…and I don't know if I can ever see her the way I used to."

Hearing the pain in her voice causes a knot to form in his stomach. "Look, I probably have no right to talk about her not being here for you…especially not after what I did, but—"

"Stiles, don't," she stops him. "It's not the same. You did it because you love me, and you thought you were making things easier for me."

"I know…but what if she took the promotion for the same reasons?"

"She's so focused on how much money she is making. She thinks it's the answer to everything."

"Maybe she needs you to remind her that it isn't. I'm not making excuses for her…but she doesn't have what we have…and maybe she lost sight of what really matters."

 _How does he do that?_ Lydia wonders. Stiles never ceases to surprise her. Somehow, he always manages to help her see past the blinding pain, to gain a different perspective, to make her feel better with such few words. It's near impossible to understand how she could ever be good enough to deserve his love. She is left speechless. All she can do is move closer and tighten her grip on his shoulders.

He slides his hands to her hips, rolling his fingers in soft circles against her bones as he talks to her. "I know you're hurt…you have every right to be...but I want things to get better for you. Don't you think you owe it to yourself to talk to her?"

She sighs, her mouth automatically reshaping into a pout.

"Will you at least consider it?"

"I don't know how much difference it will make, but yeah…I can do that."

Stiles aches for Lydia. He knows how difficult it is for her to confront all of the pain she has experienced, but her willingness to try amazes him, and for about the hundredth time this morning, he feels his love for Lydia expand beyond the farthest limits of his imagination. "Did I ever tell you how incredible you are? How strong…and brave…and—"

She quiets him with a kiss. "Stiles…just eat your breakfast."

He smirks and brushes past the shirt she is wearing to trace the swell of her breasts with his index finger while suggestively licking his lower lip. "You know something…you're really hot when you're demanding," he teases her with a wink, before ducking away and shoving the last remaining fork-full of pancakes into his mouth.

She rolls her eyes at him, then smugly walks her fingertips across his thigh, feeling his muscles twitch and watching his face change…because two can play at that game.

Stiles laughs as he grabs her hand and links their fingers, thumb absentmindedly grazing over the back of her hand as he searches for his next words. After an extended pause, he takes a breath and begins, "Hey, Lyds?"

"Yes, my love."

His stomach flutters at Lydia's choice of words and the ease at which they roll off her tongue. Timidly ducking his head down, he notes the tone of her voice – light and relaxed once again, so tender and so rich with sincerity. He wouldn't mind hearing Lydia call him _my love_ every day for the rest of his life.

"Well…I was thinking…my dad has the late shift, but he'll be home for dinner," he informs her as he swallows the last of his coffee.

He tugs on Lydia's hand with his own and nudges her heart with his words.

"Come home with me tonight. It's still your home too…and it's been empty without you. Come home with me, have dinner with my dad and me…and then we can spend time together, just the two of us and…you could stay over too. I want to hold you all night like I used to. I want you in my bed again," Stiles finishes, leaning in to kiss her, mouth sticky and sweet, and dripping with affection for her.

Lydia smiles brightly at him, flooded with warmth at the thought of returning to the only place that has truly felt like home; the place that makes her feel safe, and warm, and loved – not because of the things in it, but because of the people who live there. She aches to be in his bed again, surrounded by him for an entire night. She remembers the way their bodies fit together, how lovely it is to be tucked into his embrace – his scent enveloping her, his strong arms wrapped around her, the crook of his shoulder a perfect place to rest her head, his gentle hands dipping into the curves of her back, his face mere inches from hers, _so close_ that she can study every angle, hollow, and gold fleck, and feel every one of his breaths on her skin. She can picture them _together_ …and it is beautiful.

"I want that too," she tells him, enjoying the taste of maple syrup he deposited on her lips.

"Good."

"Stiles?"

"Of course, you can bring Prada."

She laughs. "She missed you both."

"We missed her too," he replies, looking down at the pup, who is contentedly perched next to Lydia's feet.

* * *

 _Together,_ Lydia and Stiles clean up the kitchen – amazed that they get anything accomplished between all of the kisses and hugs…and despite the significant amount of time they spend splashing water at each other as they wash the dishes. Lydia turns the stereo on, and Stiles immediately offers his hand, which she accepts without hesitation. He twirls her around the kitchen, making her laugh until she cries happy tears. When _Hey Jude_ sounds through the speakers, he stills, leaning against the counter and towing her with him. Lydia gently cups his face in her hands, massaging his cheekbones with her thumbs…and he loves it. _He loves her._ His hands slip inside the flannel she is wearing, clutching at her waist as he takes a deep breath and smiles down at her through a misting of tears. She presses close; peppering a parade of kisses over every inch of his face, salty moisture saturating her lips, and his heart pounding against hers. He calms, then slow dances with her through the rest of the song, singing softly…and only slightly off-key into her ear…and she loves it. _She loves him._

They remain that way through several more songs; w _arm, and safe, and together, and so in love._

When they reluctantly part, Lydia has a request. "Will you get me the notes you wrote?"

"Yeah, sure. I should probably get a change of clothes from the trunk too."

"Okay. I'll wait for you upstairs," she says as he kisses her forehead.

She watches him turn to leave. When Stiles reaches the doorway, he looks back at her, flashes a brilliant smile, and steps out into the morning sun. As soon as the front door closes behind him, Lydia runs up the stairs to her bedroom, still fighting the irksome fear that some unseen force might cause someone so precious to disappear from her life.


	14. Start Right Here

Lydia stands at her bedroom window and slides it open. It is late morning, and the sky is bright, painted with fluffy white clouds that pop against its cerulean blue shade. Sunlight touches everything, revealing newborn buds on the maple tree and a cheerful robin perched in its nest with red-orange breast feathers, recently preened and fluffed. The bird's song is one that Lydia is sure she hasn't heard before, but it speaks directly to her heart. As she listens to the sweet tune, her eyes search for and find Stiles. He is set in the passenger's seat of his Jeep, gathering a treasured bundle of paper from the glove compartment. Lydia watches as he steps out of the truck and jogs to the front door, and her heart flutters because she knows he is rushing to come back to her. She follows him with her eyes until he steps onto the porch and out of view.

When her gaze falls upon the ground below her window, Lydia sees the pointed green tips of tulip leaves peeking out from under the soil. She promptly realizes that every inch of the surrounding area is bursting with life; colors more vivid, breeze warmer against her skin, ordinary sounds unexpectedly melodious. Everything has changed. It's as if the world is starting over again, awakening her senses with its beauty. Today is a day unlike any other. Today is the day she has dreamt of but feared would never be possible. Today is the day that Stiles came back to her. _He loves her, and they are together._ Lydia and Stiles – a perfect combination. She sighs, and her exhale mists the window, where she traces a new message: _Thank you._

Stiles closes the door of the Jeep, slings the duffel bag he collected from the trunk over his shoulder, and takes a breath. His left hand holds a stack of hand-written notes, etched in soon-to-be-spoken love. The sidewalk is cool and rough against his bare feet as he pads to the front porch of the Martin house. He looks up at the great brick building which doesn't seem as imposing as it once did. The world is buzzing with life, and the air is finally warm again. Today feels different than any other. The blanket of darkness that had been lingering overhead is lifted because Lydia is going to come home with him. _She loves him, and they are together_.

He squints through bright daylight, climbs the stone steps, and smiles as he opens the front door…the one that will lead him back to Lydia. When he enters the foyer, he is once again greeted by the ticking of Prada's paws against shiny wood floors. Stiles calls out to her, and she shadows him as he ascends the long staircase. He follows the hallway to the second room on the right – Lydia's room.

As he reaches the threshold, Lydia comes into view. She is standing at the window, looking outwards with a smile. He doesn't have to guess what she is thinking about. He knows. Her long strawberry-blonde hair has air-dried to a naturally tousled mane. It cascades over her shoulders, casually swishing along with the breeze that passes through the open window. She is running her hands over the cotton fabric of the shirt she is wearing...his shirt. Stiles hesitates, quietly setting his overnight bag on the floor while taking in the sight of her – calm, content, and breathtakingly beautiful. The tugging at his chest that he always feels when he sees Lydia encourages him closer. He needs to hold her again, so he hastens his steps to get back to her.

Lydia is deep in thought, and she doesn't hear Stiles approach, but she feels him – familiar tugging at her heart intensified. She turns to face him, moving towards him with ease. They swiftly meet in the middle of her room, arms automatically encircling each other as he lifts her off the ground and she wraps her legs around him. He carries her to the bed, left hand still clasping the notes as he carefully nestles her on top of cool sheets. She keeps contact with him, her legs bent and ankles hooked around the back of his knees. He holds her gaze, mesmerized by radiant green eyes that penetrate his heart as they sparkle. He leans nearer and nearer, until he can sense her breath in his face, sugary and sweet from the breakfast they shared…and his heart is so full of love that he can barely contain it.

"Hi," he greets her.

"Hi."

"I missed you."

"It's only been a few minutes," she points out.

"I know."

"I missed you too," she confesses, moving her hands from his neck to caress his cheekbones and enjoying how they deepen in hue underneath her touch. "It felt like a lot longer."

"Yeah, it did."

Her eyes roam to the left side of her head, where Stiles has placed the notes he held. "Will you read them to me?" she whispers.

"Sure…but first, check your pocket."

Lydia looks at him with curiosity, then dips her fingers between the panels of fabric. Her eyes widen as she discovers a folded piece of notebook paper. "How did you— _When_ did you put that there?" she asks with utter surprise.

He smiles mischievously, pushing the sides of his flannel away to expose her mid-section. "When we were in the kitchen. Somewhere between…here…" he says, scattering a line of kisses from her stomach to her throat as she giggles, "and here…" he continues, hovering over her mouth before kissing her full on the lips.

When he pulls back, Lydia is entranced by gold-flecked irises that pierce her soul with their smoldering glow. He is both passionate and tender with her; heat of his body settling over her like a blanket of summer air…and her heart is so full of love that it floods every inch of her and overflows from the corners of her eyes.

She slowly unfolds the paper and silently reads the message Stiles inscribed for her, looking deliberately over each word, so she can memorize every distinct mark of his penmanship.

 _I love you. Can we start every day like this?_

She feels it again – that idyllic sense of bliss inhabiting her bones; Stiles nestling deeper and deeper inside, building a permanent home within parts of her that no one else _has ever_ or _could ever_ touch. She leaves the note unfolded and presses the penned side of it to the center of her chest for a moment before reaching out for him.

"That works for me," she replies, stroking his face with one hand and running her fingertips through the ends of his hair with the other.

"How in the hell did we survive a month without each other?" he wonders aloud, furrowing his brows.

Lydia blinks through the stinging in her eyes. "You mean…one month…two days…seventeen hours…"

He half-smiles, half-grimaces, turning his face to kiss the pads of her fingers.

"I don't know…" she adds, tracing his cupid's bow with her thumb, "but let's _never_ do that again."

"Never again, Lyds. _Never."_

He kisses her over and over, and he tastes like blueberries and sugary coffee. He surrounds her, and even through the scent of her shampoo and body wash, he still smells like Stiles. _She wants him closer._ Her hands find their way to the hem of his tee shirt and she slowly drags it up and over his head as he kneels between her legs. He leans down, sliding his hands under her back and supporting her with one arm so that with the other, he can peel his red and blue plaid from her body until she is freed of it. When he tosses it to the floor, Prada seizes the opportunity to curl up in the pile of fabric and drift to sleep.

Lydia and Stiles lie side by side; her – lazily dragging her hands up and down his arms and chest, him – twirling her hair with one hand and exploring the sheer material of her bra and panties with the other. Contented in each other's company, they remain in comfortable silence…and everything else fades away.

Early in the afternoon, Stiles sits upright on Lydia's bed. He is supported by a few of her pillows which are propped against her plum-colored velvet headboard. She is leaning on his chest, the smooth skin of her back and lace of her bra-straps pressed firmly against him, and the length of her wavy locks draped over his shoulder. He keeps his arms around her, hands splayed across her stomach as she gingerly lifts the lid of an embossed paper box, revealing the place where she has securely kept all of the notes he had given her. As she sifts through each treasured message, Stiles notices clusters of dainty star-shaped blossoms, scattered like confetti within the box.

"Lyds…those are the lilacs I gave you… Aren't they?"

"Uh-huh."

"You kept those too?"

"Yeah...seemed a shame to let go of something so beautiful."

"I know what you mean," he agrees, squeezing her and marking her temple with his lips.

She flicks her eyes upwards to catch his glance. "What you did for me… Stiles, I don't know how I would have gotten through that day without you. You showed me your love, over and over again. You took me outside of the pain for a while…pain that I was drowning in…and you gave me hope. Stiles, you saved me."

He moves his right hand to cup her face, leaning down to press his lips to hers. "You saved me too Lydia…in so many ways."

She smiles. "We're really lucky to have each other… Aren't we?"

"Yeah, we are."

She clutches his wrist, then reaches for the stack of unread notes. The blue string that binds them is quickly unraveled. Lydia winds it around her finger before handing the neatly folded papers to Stiles.

"Go ahead," she speaks softly. "I need to know everything you wanted to tell me."

He accepts them but hesitates to begin. Nervously biting his lip, Stiles remembers the heartache, the guilt, and the pain that loomed over him as he wrote each message.

Lydia can feel his heart rate accelerate beneath her. "Something wrong?" she asks.

"It's just…these aren't like the others. When I wrote these, I was in a pretty dark place."

"I know. I was too…so…whatever you wrote, it's okay. I'll understand."

He nods and inhales, and she can feel his ribs expand under her spine. She breathes with him, and he can feel her love washing over him as he begins.

"March 25: _Please call me. Tell me I was wrong. Tell me I'm an idiot. Tell me to come back to you,_ " he reads from the first page. Then he unfolds the second note from that day. " _This hurts so much. Even more than I thought it would._

March 26: _Lydia, I'm lost without you._

March 27: _I couldn't breathe when I saw you this morning._

I wrote the next one in algebra class," he recalls. "It says: _Please turn around. Just for a second. I miss you._ " He lets out an aggravated sigh. "I should have given this to you. _"_

Lydia tilts her head up to make eye contact. "I should have turned around. I wanted to. I wanted to hold your hand so badly."

"I wanted that too."

They look at each other in unspoken apology. When Lydia offers Stiles a gentle smile, he returns the gesture and continues with the next note.

"March 28: _My arms are empty without you._

March 29: _I miss you…more every day._

March 30: _I think about you first thing in the morning._

March 31: _I dream about you every night._

April 1: _It's so hard not to look at you. You're so beautiful._

April 2: _Do you know how much I love you? I always will._

April 3: _I hate sleeping without you next to me._

April 4: _Why don't you raise your hand in class anymore? I know you have the answers."_ Stiles stops reading. "Lydia?"

"Yeah?"

"Why did you do that?"

"Because…I felt like I didn't know anything anymore."

"Lyds…"

"All I can say is…" she explains, fighting the onset of fresh tears, "I was lost without you too."

He closes his eyes and rests his cheek against hers. She blinks her eyes to clarity, then reaches over her shoulder to rest her hand on the nape of his neck, lightly massaging her fingers into his gradually relaxing muscles. They sit silently as their bodies rise and fall together.

After a few moments, Stiles opens his eyes and continues, "April 5: _What are you thinking right now?_

April 6: _I miss waking up next to you._

April 7: _It's so dark without you._

April 9: _I miss the way you listened to my heart. I wonder if it would sound different to you now._

April 10: _I just want you to be happy._

 _I miss your smile, the way your eyes light up, and your dimples._

April 11: _I still can't breathe without you._

April 12: _I keep thinking about when we kissed. I remember what it feels like."_

"Stiles, I did too."

He holds her tighter as she leans in for a kiss.

"I just wanted you to know that," she tells him, and he smiles.

"April 13: _I miss having breakfast with you._

April 14: _Lydia, you are the best thing that ever happened to me._

April 15: _I want you back. I want you to come home with me._

April 16: _Please talk to me. Tell me anything. I'll listen._

April 17: _Is there any part of you that can forgive me?_

 _I miss our friendship. I miss what we were becoming."_

By the time Stiles gets to April 18, his throat has painfully tensed. Lydia's eyes are fixed on his tortured expression – brows cinched, jaw twitching, bottom lip quivering. She feels the same anguish as she remembers all of the long days and nights that they were apart.

Her voice is laden with emotion and concern when she speaks, "Stiles, I'm sorry. We can stop."

The mass of his own words is bearing down, but it feels right to keep going. He _wants_ to keep reading – for Lydia. He _needs_ her to hear, and see, and feel the love he held, no matter the distance between them.

He exhales a shaky breath. "No, I'm okay. I've got you in my arms… I'm okay." He nods his head towards the paper in his hand. "I only wrote one word on the eighteenth. Look."

Lydia reluctantly shifts her eyes from his face, breath hitching in her throat when she sees what he is referring to. It's a drawing of the sun with her name neatly printed at the center of it.

"Oh…Stiles…I—" Lydia gasps through a broken sob. Her hair drifts across his body as she sits up and kneels next to him on the bed. She smooths her hands across the broad width of his shoulders and brings him into a hug. "That's what you are to me too."

He holds onto her, arms completely enveloping her small frame. _He wants her closer._ Burying his face in her hair, he urges Lydia nearer until she is straddling his lap. She tucks her head into the crook of his neck, patiently waiting to hear more of his words and bracing herself to absorb the impact of those words as they impart his love into every fiber of her being. Lydia's reassuring presence helps Stiles find his voice so that he can read the last few messages. His tone is soft, and sweet, and low as he caresses the small of her back with one hand and manages the slips of paper with the other.

"This one is from the day we saw each other at Scott's house. April 19: _I wanted to talk to you today, but you are so beautiful, and I love you so much that I couldn't even string a sentence together."_

"I wanted to talk to you too," Lydia tells Stiles, her exhale wafting across his neck as she quietly speaks.

He wets his lips and tries to swallow the lump in his throat. "April 20: _Are you still afraid of me?_

April 21: _Please forgive me._

April 22: _I love you so damn much._

April 23: _Do you have any idea how much I miss you?_

April 24: _I don't think I can do this anymore._

…and you have the next two."

When Stiles finishes reading, both he and Lydia lose their battle with tears; his – trickling down his cheeks, hers – pooling in his collarbone.

Stiles sets the notes aside, captivated by the feeling of Lydia's body around his torso. She is perfection in lace and silky skin draped over him, bridge of her nose pressed to the side of his neck, lashes tickling his pulse point, palms flat against the sides of his ribs, thighs locked against his waist. Lydia closes her eyes, besotted by the feeling of Stiles beneath her. His perfect firm chest and abdomen are warm against her breasts and stomach, his jaw resting on her forehead, his arms crossing over the narrow width of her, one hand at the nape of her neck and the other outlining infinity symbols against the ridges of her spine. They are as close as two people can be, _and still, they want to be closer_.

After a few minutes, Lydia lifts her head to look at Stiles. "You skipped a day… April 8 – your birthday."

"It's here, I wanted to save it for last. It says: _All I want today is you."_

Lydia's rose-colored lips blossom into a smile. "I didn't forget, you know. I even got you a gift."

"I didn't think you forgot…but you didn't have to get me anything."

"I wanted to," she tells him. "Do you want to see what it is?"

"Yeah, sure."

She gets up from his lap, crawls over to the nightstand, and slides the drawer open. After retrieving an envelope, which she hides behind her back, Lydia kneels by his side.

"I never wrapped it," she explains, hint of embarrassment on her face and in her tone.

Stiles shakes his head as he grins. "It's okay…really."

She kisses him delicately, then whispers, "Happy birthday," as she presses the envelope into his hands.

His eyes shift down and noticeably widen as he reads the return address. "Lydia…what?" he gasps, sitting up straight and folding his legs inwards.

"Go ahead… Look inside."

Gnawing on his lip in anticipation, Stiles reaches into the envelope and withdraws its contents. His jaw drops while his mouth reshapes into a dazzling smile. "Mets tickets! Third base-side seats! Are you kidding me? Oh my god! Lyds, this is amazing! It's incredible…" Suddenly, his face grows solemn. "It's…too much."

Lydia inches closer to him, gripping his bicep. "Don't say that. _Please._ I want this for you. You deserve it. You deserve so much more than this – you deserve everything… _everything_ you want."

Stiles looks at her in that special way that he does – the way that makes her insides throb with need for him, the way that makes her realize his love for her is so vast that it has no beginning and no end. When he drops his face to her chest, Lydia can feel him smiling against her skin, she can _feel_ how happy he is, and it makes her heart soar. She rests her cheek on the top of his head and wraps her arms around him, feathery tufts of his hair tickling her nose and his breath ghosting across her breasts. And she loves him _too much_ , but right now her heart feels strong enough to carry every ounce of that love.

"Lydia Martin, _you_ are what I want most in the world," he declares, lips skimming her cleavage with every syllable. Then he lifts his head, eyes glowing gold with immeasurable intensity. "You know that… Right?"

"Yes, and you have me. I'm yours. But you'll take the tickets too… Won't you?" she asks.

 _I'm yours._ She says the words so naturally and with such certainty that it makes his entire body buzz. Stiles is so full of love for Lydia that he thinks this time, _his_ heart must be breaking, but it feels so good to be in her arms that he can't feel any pain.

"Yes," he confirms, scooping her into his arms as she squeals with delight.

He lays her down on the bed, his body hovering over hers as she hooks her legs around him. He pauses. He loves seeing her like this – happy, and hopeful, and so completely _with him_ in the moment.

Stiles kisses Lydia over…and over…and over again. "Thank you, so…so…so much," he repeats, gratitude dripping from his mouth like honey.

She sighs into him, reveling in the taste of his mouth and the feeling of his body on top of hers.

"Lyds, when did you get them?"

"Last month…the night after we talked about the game you went to…I asked your dad if it was alright," she responds, tightening her legs around him until he is pressed against her.

He kisses her cheek while she runs her fingers through his hair. "And…" he moans, unable to withhold the reaction as she nibbles on his earlobe, "obviously you are coming with me, but…there are three tickets in that envelope. Who is the third one for?"

"Scott."

"He knows about this?"

"Yeah, he's been saving up from working at the clinic, so we could split the cost of the plane tickets. I've got a credit card for everything else. When I started making plans, I thought the three of us could share one room... _but now_ …" she enlightens, as she pushes her hips against Stiles, making him whimper, "now, I'm pretty sure _you and I_ are going to want a room to ourselves."

"Uh…yeah, definitely going to want that," he agrees, giving her more of his weight as his jaw slackens with desire.

The building pressure feels good, but Lydia wants to slow things down. She tightens her legs around him once more, heels of her feet digging into the curves of his ass…and he stills. His eyes soften and his mouth quirks to one side in unspoken communication. With his palms and fingers, Stiles tells Lydia that he is just as pleased to change pace with her. He runs his hand down the length of her body, starting at her temple, then into her hair, around the curve of her ear, past her neck and shoulder, skimming the side of her breast as he travels the length of her ribs and abdomen, swirling over her hip, along her thigh, and stopping when his arm is fully extended, reaching to the back of her knee. Lydia smiles gently at the way Stiles understands her, the way their bodies seem to be attuned to the same frequency, ebbing and flowing along a single wavelength.

They could do this for hours – be close like this, touch each other, kiss each other, hold each other, make each other feel every bit of affection that they have both been aching to experience – just _be_ _together_ for as long as possible…while everything else fades away.

Brushing his hair back, Lydia draws Stiles's face near and kisses his forehead. "I was thinking…Scott and Kira seem to be getting closer… Maybe she'd like to come with us. I bet I can get another ticket. What do you think? Should we ask Scott if he'll be okay with that?"

"Yeah. That's a really good idea. They're taking things slow, but he told me it's going pretty well...and I think we could all use some time away from here."

"I think so too." She gingerly kisses his cupid's bow. "Stiles?"

"Hmm."

"You're happy… Right?"

His mouth breaks into a broad smile above her lips as he slides his arms underneath her. "Yeah, Lyds. You make me _really_ happy." He rolls them both over, so she is lying on top of him.

"I'm glad," she tells him, settling her head on his chest.

They spend the next stretch of time curled up together…whispering all of the things they have wanted to say to each other over the past few weeks.

* * *

When the afternoon sun begins to toss muted yellow beams of light into the bedroom, Lydia and Stiles climb out of their cozy nest of sheets, blankets, and pillows, and prepare to leave.

Stiles has changed into a pair of khakis along with a tan and grey hooded pullover. While Lydia takes her turn washing up in the bathroom, he thoughtfully tidies the bed, then sits at the edge of it to put on a clean pair of socks and his sneakers. He watches as a fresh-faced Lydia stands in front of her closet.

"Hey…did you wanna bring a change of clothes with you for tonight and tomorrow?"

"Yes, definitely," she answers, removing a pretty white top printed with tiny Monarch butterflies from its hanger.

She glides the blouse over her head, then selects a midnight-blue mini-skirt. Stepping into the skirt and gliding it over her hips with ease, she walks over to the bed and stands in front of Stiles with her back to him. "Zip me up, please?" she requests, glancing over her shoulder at him.

A playful grin takes shape on his mouth as he takes the tiny zipper between his fingers and slowly drags it upwards. Once the closure is secured, Lydia turns to face Stiles, smooth skin of her legs spinning in his hands…which have already found their way underneath the hem of her skirt.

Wispy chiffon fabric swishes over his knuckles as he gently massages her thighs. "You realize, I am already thinking about taking this skirt off of you… Don't you?"

"Noted," she says with a smirk, before ducking down for a kiss. "I can't wait," she informs him, eyeing him up and down, then stepping aside and out of his reach.

Stiles groans, flopping back on the bed as he admires her. "Me neither," he sighs.

Lydia heads to the dresser to get pajamas for the evening and returns to the closet to pick out an outfit for the next day. As she sets her clothes next to his in the duffel bag, her stomach flourishes with excitement. She pictures the two of them packing for New York in the summer and someday packing for a much longer trip. Then, she sits at the vanity with a curling iron and begins to transform her mane of messy waves into soft ringlets, one section at a time. As she releases the last coil of hair and waits for it to cool, she lifts her eyes to observe Stiles's reflection in the mirror. He has retrieved his baseball from her desk and is tossing it from one hand to the other as he pads around the room.

"Stiles?" she calls.

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering…before we go home…could we make another stop or two first?"

Stiles turns to her. He can feel the confidence she has in them growing as words like _we_ and _home_ effortlessly spill from her lips. He knows exactly where Lydia intends to go, and it nudges at his heart. He sets the baseball on the desk and moves to kneel in front of her while she twists and pins the front portions of her hair to the crown of her head.

"Sure, Lyds."

"Thanks."

He rests his head in her lap fiddling with the hem of her skirt as she puts on her make-up. She is sticking to the bare minimum again – tinted moisturizer, a hint of blush, curled lashes, and a sweep of shimmering eyeshadow. When she is nearly finished, she takes Stiles's face in her hands and kisses him flush on the mouth.

"Ready to go?" she asks.

"Yeah. Should I take Prada for a walk before we leave?"

"Would you? I'll get her things and meet you by the Jeep."

"Okay," he tells Lydia as he rises from the floor. "Come on Prada," he calls. "Let's go for a walk."

At the sound of her name, Prada stirs from her nap and hops down from a sun-warmed spot on the window seat to follow him out of the room. The two go downstairs, and the pup waits by the front door barking as Stiles takes her leash from the hall closet and attaches it to her collar.

Outside, Stiles tugs his sleeves up and walks to the curb. He deposits his overnight bag in the backseat of the Jeep, mind brimming with memories of Lydia. Memories made new because now he understands that she loved him all these months. He remembers holding her hand and the calm through nervousness that only she can inspire. He remembers the way her sweet scent expanded his lungs and how her kiss left hope on his cheek. She asked him to see her with touches instead of words, and when he opened his arms…she opened her heart. He remembers her eyes, flickering in lightning, and her skin, glowing in streetlamps. He remembers her face, saturated in raindrops and teardrops that poured down in anguish but glistened with love. He can still hear her laughter, and a trace of her whisper still promises: _I'll never forget._ The small space seems bigger when she is within it; endless possibility and open road ahead. His heart rushes at the thought of her sitting beside him again, but also twinges with grief when he thinks of where they are about to go. He walks up and down the block with Prada, his own pain sharpening to a higher level because he knows Lydia is about to confront something that is going to hurt her.

Eventually, Prada tires and scratches at his leg to be picked up. Stiles cuddles her, taking comfort in the affection she reciprocates as though she senses his building anxiety. He removes his phone from his pocket and sends a text, then leans against the Jeep waiting for his girl.

Back inside the house, Lydia takes a moment to look at the photo that is tucked into the frame of her mirror. She looks at Allison, Scott, and Stiles – three beautiful faces surrounding her with love. Her eyes fall upon her own reflection as the ache she always feels for Allison intensifies. _Don't frown Lydia,_ she hears, _someone could be falling in love with your smile._ Throat tightening at the memory, she silently wishes to have her best friend with her again. Her eyes reflexively lift to the image of Stiles, and she finds the courage to take her friend's advice. Watery-eyed, Lydia watches as her lips transform into a genuine smile. She kisses the tip of her index finger, then presses it to Allison's forehead.

Rising from her seat, she walks over to the nightstand and picks up her necklace – the one that she wore on the day of Allison's funeral, the one that Stiles fastened around her neck as securely as he fastened himself around her heart. She puts the silver jewel on and tucks it into the collar of her blouse. Then she returns to the vanity, applies her lip gloss, and slips on her ankle boots…and when the zipper sticks, she can't help but smile bigger.

After sending a text, Lydia slides her phone into her tan suede purse and goes downstairs. She packs Prada's food, bed, and toy duck into a shoulder bag, and takes a look around the house. Without Stiles, it's far too still and far too quiet, but it doesn't seem as empty as it did yesterday…because today, she and Stiles filled it with good memories – _together_. She remembers Stiles coming back to her – just like he promised he would. He climbed through the window to reassemble her broken heart in the way that only he could ever do. She remembers making love with him as darkness turned to daylight and feeling that she never wanted it to end. She fell asleep and woke up beside him, and his strong arms kept her from falling when her knees buckled from the oppressive fear of losing him. They shared breakfast and countless kisses. They danced. She remembers the way Stiles twirled her around the space – the two of them circling each other in orbit, a blur of color and light, and galaxies of stars flashing within his eyes. She remembers the sound of his voice saying _I love you,_ and the music of his laughter still echoes in her soul. She remembers the feeling of peace inside when she was able to comfort Stiles as the memory of his mother rained through the atmosphere in love-soaked tears. She also remembers the step she is about to take, that her own grief is lying in wait, so she picks up her keys and willfully moves toward the future – where she knows Stiles will be waiting for her.

Stepping outside and locking the great wooden door behind her, Lydia forces a deep inhale in an attempt to center herself. Nerves are beginning to get the better of her, but then a bright burst of light catches her attention. She turns to seek out its source…and she sees _him._

Stiles is leaning against the Jeep holding Prada in one arm, his face nestled into her neck, his form in silhouette. Daylight glints off the exterior of the truck and radiates rays from all around him. He is as bright as the sun, and the sight of him melts away her unrest. _Stiles is with me,_ she thinks. _He loves me, and we are together._ She finds her smile again and steps off the porch, quickening her stride to get to him.

His head lifts when he hears the front door of the Martin house close. Stiles watches, lips parted in reverent admiration, as his love approaches; eyes gleaming like emeralds...even from a distance, lightweight layers of her skirt fluttering across the midpoint of her thighs, hair color that puts the sunset to shame bouncing in ringlets around her shoulders as she descends the stone steps. She walks to him, hand outstretched, smile pointed directly at his heart. It feels like every dream he has ever had come true. For a prolonged moment, he thinks about getting in the Jeep with her, driving out of Beacon Hills, _together_ …and everything else fades away.

"Hey, beautiful. Wanna drive?" he asks, eyebrows raised as he twirls his keys in his hand.

She steps close, resting her hand at his waist. "Another time," she responds, eyes misting with love. "Today, I just want to sit here and hold your hand."

"That works for me." He opens the passenger's side door, waiting for her to climb inside the Jeep.

Lydia takes her seat, drops her belongings in the back, buckles herself in, and extends her arms for Prada. She can't help but get emotional as she settles into the space. The same space that cradled her with familiarity as Stiles drove her to and from school through the worst and best week of her life. Where he held her together through grief and heartache. Where he told her that he loved her with lilacs, and raspberry-chocolate cupcakes, and words that proved he paid attention. Where they shared tears, secrets, and a rain-soaked embrace, and a breath that set her heart on fire. The same place where she made a birthday wish…that actually came true.

Stiles looks at her attentively. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah…I was just remembering." She rests her hand over his heart when she says, "I've missed this too."

"So have I. Nothing was the same without you, Lydia. Nothing."

She touches his face. "I know what you mean."

He leans into her hand, gazing at her for another minute before kissing her palm and backing up to close the door.

Within seconds, Stiles has taken his seat beside her and started up the engine. Then, he links their hands and leans over to kiss her, ever so tenderly... _because he loves her,_ but he is also trying to be considerate and not smudge her lip gloss in the process.

The contact gives them both a blissful dizzying sensation… _and it feels like home._

"I've always wanted to do that," he admits when their lips part.

"I hoped you would. Was it what you thought?"

"Nah…the real thing is even better."

Lydia's chest heaves as the breath she has been holding escapes. She grabs Stiles by the front of his pullover before he can move away, then smashes her lips against his with ardent desire… _because she loves him,_ and she doesn't give a damn if her lip gloss gets smudged right now.

Stiles eagerly matches her energy, all the longing from the past month still bubbling over. Lydia is forceful at first, then her bottom lip falls away as she searches for air. When their mouths reconnect, she has softened...but the need she conveys is no less evident. Stiles can feel it in the way she delays her movements, in the way her grip on his clothing has strengthened, and in the way she touches her forehead to his; depths of her love whispering to him from beneath the surface of her skin.

Once Lydia releases his shirt and carefully smooths out the wrinkles she made, Stiles lets out a long slow breath. "Wow…yeah…way better."

With her thumb, Lydia wipes the gloss that transferred from her mouth to his. "Can we stop by the flower shop on Maple Street first?"

He looks at her through sparkling eyes, his handsome face animated by a charming grin and slightly flushed cheeks. "Yeah, Lyds. We can go anywhere you want," he answers…and he means it too.

* * *

They drive along quiet roads, hands locked securely over the gearshift, speaking in hushed tones as though every breath between them carries a secret. Lydia's little gold ring flashes as it connects with sunlight which intermittently dims and brightens as clouds float across the sky. Her eyes are transfixed on Stiles, who taps a rhythm on the steering wheel with his thumb and index finger and glances over at her as often as possible.

When they arrive at their first destination, Stiles waits with Prada, and Lydia goes into the shop. Shortly after, she returns with a bouquet clutched to her chest. She takes her seat, sets the flowers on the dashboard, and reclaims Prada as well as Stiles's hand.

They fall silent as they travel to their next stop, Beacon Hills Cemetery. Stiles takes the winding road past towering beech trees, lush evergreens, and budding apple blossoms. He parks a few feet beyond the turn that leads to Allison's grave and walks around to help Lydia. She passes Prada to him and he sets the little dog down by his feet.

Straightening, he offers Lydia his hand. "Do you want me to come with…or should I wait here?" he asks as she reaches for the bouquet.

"I want you with me," she replies, lacing their fingers together.

"Then that's where I'll be." He gives her hand a squeeze and shuts the door behind her.

Together, they walk towards the place where Allison is laid to rest. With each step, Lydia can feel her limbs shaking as a chill overtakes her. The only part of her that remains warm and anchored to the earth is the hand that is connected to Stiles. From where they stand, several feet from the sight, Lydia can see a familiar name carved in stone...and she freezes. If she had an empty hand, it would be clasped over her mouth to stifle a cry.

 _Allison is gone —_ there is no way to deny it, no pretending that she is merely in France. Her name is in bold letters over the Argent family crest; irrefutable proof that _Allison is gone, and she is not coming back._

Stiles can feel her body quivering at the end of his hand as she comes to a halt beside him. "Lydia?"

"I haven't… I haven't been here," she stammers, staring ahead, "since the funeral. I—I didn't know that the gravestone was going to be..."

His heart wrenches as he releases her hand and takes the bouquet from her, placing it down on the grass so he can properly hold her.

"Stiles… Stiles," she whimpers, closing her eyes tightly. "It hurts."

"I know. I know," he tells her, gently rocking her as she leans into him and surrenders to the onslaught of tears.

"I can't—I can't do this," she insists, shaking her head against his shoulder.

"Shh…it's okay. It's okay," Stiles soothes. He hesitates, then sets his hands on her upper arms and hunches down. "Lydia, look at me."

She keeps her eyes on his shoes, grasping his elbows and trying to work her way into his embrace, but Stiles keeps her at arm's length, waiting for her to comply. She is stubborn, and he is nearly ready to cave to her trembling bottom lip, to pull her back into his arms and cry right along with her, when her eyes suddenly connect with his.

"Stiles, I can't," she repeats.

 _"Yes,_ _you can._ You're strong. You're the strongest person I know…and you _can_ do this."

The quaking ceases and she nods, lips firmly pursed, cheeks tinting pink. There is a certainty in his tone that openly expresses his unwavering belief in her ability. She's heard it before. _Don't go doubting yourself now,_ she remembers. His faith in her is contagious, and it chases the chill away. She feels stronger.

Stiles slides one hand to Lydia's wrist, bringing her palm flat against his sternum, then places his other hand at the center of her chest. "Just take a breath, nice and slow."

She follows his instruction.

"Again," he says, comforted by the way her chest rises and falls with his…and he feels stronger too.

They inhale and exhale together.

"Good. Come here," Stiles coaxes her, taking her into another hug. "It's gonna be okay. You aren't alone. I'm with you. We can do this _together,_ and we don't have to move from this spot until you're ready."

His voice is muffled as he speaks into her neck, but to Lydia, his message is clear: _Stiles is with me. He loves me, and we're together._ She clings to him, fisting the fabric underneath his shoulder blades and finding solace in the rhythmic sound of his heart, then reluctantly releases him.

Her eyes are still glistening with droplets when two words – two words which could never be enough – fall from her mouth. "Thank you."

To Stiles, it seems ridiculous to say _you're welcome_ in response. The phrase is too ordinary, too simple, too unworthy of the love he has for her. If there are any such words he could use to tell Lydia that the way she is looking at him is all the thanks he will ever need, then he has no knowledge of them. So, instead he smiles and kisses her forehead, hoping that she understands. The way she smiles back, even with tears puddling in her eyes, shows him that she does.

When she blinks, an abundance of liquid emotion cascades over long lashes and trickles down her cheeks. Stiles reaches into his pocket, pulling out a tissue to blot her eyes. He picks up the flowers, hands them to her, and drapes his arm over her shoulder.

They advance a single step before Lydia pauses again. "Don't let go. Okay?"

"I won't."

Lydia looks at him one more time, then pushes forward until they are poised in front of Allison's gravestone. In this moment, she is supremely aware of the love that supports her from both sides. Stiles is standing on her right; beautiful soul, limitless courage, and pure heart, bracing her body with his own. Prada is sitting at her left heel; gentle and devoted companion, wisps of silky hair carried with the wind across Lydia's bare calves as she reads the inscription:

 _In Loving Memory_ _of_

 **Allison Argent**

 _Beloved Daughter_

 _Cherished Sister_

 _Devoted Friend_

 _Valiant Protector_

 _October 12, 1995 - March 17, 2013_

 _It is only kindness that makes sense anymore._

With her focus on fourth and last lines, she suddenly comprehends,"That night…when Scott came for dinner and he was going to see Chris after…this is what they were meeting about. Wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Stiles, it says _Sister_."

"That's how she felt about you Lydia," he tells her, thumb grazing along her neck.

"Did you know it would say that?"

"No, I didn't."

"What about the last line? It's from the poem I said at the funeral, and it was the one that meant the most to me… You're the only person who knew that. Was it your idea to add it?"

"Yes. It's okay…right?"

She replies by resting her head on him and nodding into his shoulder. "I've never done this. What do I do?"

"You can talk to her if you want to."

"Where do I start? There's so much to say."

"Start right here," he coaches, running his knuckles over her heart. "She'll understand."

Lydia lifts her head and pushes out a shaky breath. She separates from Stiles to place the bouquet of white tulips in the vase alongside the granite headstone. Then, she lovingly runs her left hand over the words _Allison_ and _Sister_ before returning to Stiles.

"Hi, Allison. I brought you some tulips." Her voice cracks sharply, but she focuses on Stiles's arm around her, and the reassuring contact helps her find the words, "I read somewhere that white tulips are supposed to symbolize forgiveness. The ones we planted aren't blooming yet…but they're finally starting to come up. I hope it means you forgive me. I'm so sorry that I couldn't save you. I miss you so much...I think of you all the time, and Stiles says that means you're still with me. I think he's right."

Her eyes find Stiles as his name passes her lips. He is a beacon of light, breaking through the darkness that has been seeking to shroud her in sadness and remorse.

"I came to tell you that…I'm going to be okay, Allison. I'm still hurting…and I'm pretty sure I always will because…well, you took a piece of me with you…but I'm going to be okay…because Stiles is with me, and we promised to take care of each other. We are both going to take care of Scott too. I hope you're at peace…and that wherever you are, you feel as loved as I do right now." She slides both of her arms around Stiles, breathing in the scent of him as he rests his chin on her head. "I'll never forget you. You'll always be my best friend, _my sister._ You changed me…you opened my heart, and you led me to Stiles…and he makes me so happy. I can never thank you enough…for saving my life."

Stiles can feel his heart healing with every word that passes from Lydia's lips. Each syllable a reminder to him – _Lydia is with me. She loves me, and we are together._ She helps him find the strength to articulate an apology that has been hanging from the tip of his tongue for weeks, but which he didn't think he had the right to utter.

"You saved me too, Allison," he says softly. "I'm so sorry…sorry for everything. Please, forgive me."

He is about to lift a hand to wipe his eyes, but Lydia is a step ahead of him. Her cool hands ease the heat in his cheeks, and the encouraging pulse of her heart beats steadily against the curve of his ribs.

He wets his lips and continues, "I don't think I can ever make it up to you…but I'm going to try…and I'm going to do that by being here for Lydia…by loving her the way she deserves to be loved, and by making sure she's safe and happy. I promise I'll do my best not to let either of you down. We love you…always will."

Lydia runs her hand over his stomach. "Stiles, are you alright?"

"Yeah," he sighs. "I've got you with me."

"Did I do okay?"

He cups her face, long fingers wandering into her hair. "More than okay…you were perfect, my sweet Lydia," he whispers before leaning down to kiss her tenderly.

They hold each other close as the atmosphere shifts; sun beginning to lower in the sky, wind gusting through the bordering trees, fragrance of sharp pine, crisp spring air, and dampened earth pervading their senses, and the intensity of their love quieting the ache that has been burdening their hearts for weeks.

After a while, a familiar voice carries from a short distance away. "Hey guys."

They both turn to see their friend, shy grin spread across his mouth.

"Scott," Lydia calls, slowly letting go of Stiles. She walks over to greet him, and he gives her one of his signature bear-hugs.

He pulls back to look at Lydia, who is smiling brightly. "Isn't that a beautiful sight," he compliments her. "I haven't seen you smile like this in a long time."

"It's all his fault," she explains, beaming over her shoulder at Stiles.

Scott gives her a kiss on the cheek as Stiles steps over to them.

"Hey, Scott," he greets, patting his best friend on the shoulder. "I…uh…I know you two are having a moment here…but…kind of feeling left out right now," he teases.

"Well, get in here then," he encourages, bringing him into the embrace.

"Did you know we'd be here?" Stiles asks.

"Yeah, Lydia texted me…a couple of minutes after you texted to invite me to dinner."

They all look to each other, gentle laughter escaping as they lean into each other for support.

"I'm so happy for you two," Scott tells them. "You deserve this…and…" he glances at Allison's grave, "she'd be thrilled for you both. I know it." His eyes mist, and he drops his head down, but Lydia and Stiles envelop him, and he manages another smile.

The three friends stand in silence, forever bound by the love they have for Allison, the loss they feel without her, and the reliance they have on each other to keep her memory alive.

Realizing that Scott needs some time alone, Stiles is the first to speak up. "Lyds, we should head home."

She nods and reaches for his hand, then turns to Scott. "You are coming to dinner… Right?"

"Yeah. Wouldn't miss it."

"If you need a ride, we can wait for you by the Jeep," Stiles offers.

"Nah, you go ahead. I parked my dirt bike outside the gate. I'll meet you in a bit."

Stiles and Lydia walk to the Jeep, stopping one last time to glance at Scott, who is now kneeling beside Allison's grave with his hand resting over her name. The touching image makes Lydia gasp. She looks to Stiles, who is biting his lip.

"Stiles…"

"I know."

An overpowering impulse works its way through Lydia. "I love you, Scott McCall," she tells him quietly, knowing full well that he will hear her.

Scott turns his head in her direction. Even from a distance, she can see that he is smiling.

Stiles stands awestruck by Lydia's instinct to say the exact words that their friend needed to hear just then. "He'll be alright now," he assures her as he tugs on her hand.


	15. One Breath Rising

**20 Minutes Later**

When they arrive at the Stilinski home, Stiles parks the Jeep in the driveway and looks over at Lydia as he lets go of her hand to shut the engine. She is holding Prada closely, staring through the windshield in the direction of the front door.

"You okay, Lyds?"

She blinks, but her eyes remain fixed on the house. "You know that saying…you can't go home again? Well…it probably exists for a reason," she pouts.

Stiles moves his hand to her thigh; satin skin and delicate bone completely enveloped by his palm and fingers. He pauses, mesmerized by the way he has so intimately touched her. Seven months ago, it would have seemed too forward a gesture. If he had even considered it, he would have decided against doing so and positioned his hand on her shoulder instead. Seven days ago, it was outside the realm of possibility – they were barely speaking, let alone touching. Today, some seven hours after they were in bed together, he doesn't have to think – it is instinct to reach out like this, and the tension in Lydia's leg dissolves underneath the contact.

"Maybe…" he agrees, "but it doesn't apply to this place. This is _always_ going to be your home."

The confidence Stiles conveys, encourages Lydia to look at him. She places her hand on top of his and inhales deeply. "Okay. I'm ready," she says, but as he exits the truck and picks up their belongings from the back seat, she can't seem to get her body to move forward.

When he opens the passenger's side door, she is still frozen in place, so he takes Prada from her arms and sets the dog on the ground. "You're gonna actually have to get out of the Jeep, Lydia. I mean…you know I'm more than willing to drive through walls for you, if that's what it takes to get you inside…but _now_ might not be the best time to do something like that," Stiles teases.

His lighthearted tone snaps Lydia from the trance she was slipping into, and she laughs; formerly painful memory transformed into yet another illustration of his love for her. She marvels at his ability to cut through the noise, to get through to her, to make her feel better. _Stiles is here. He loves me, and we are together_ , she remembers as her heels hit the pavement.

"Will you hold my hand?" she asks.

He takes her hand with a crooked grin, intertwines their fingers, and drops a quick kiss at the corner of her mouth. "Come on. I can't wait to see my dad's face!"

Lydia's eyes widen. Her smile fades as a rush of nerves courses through her, and she reflexively reaches for his forearm. "Wait! You didn't call to tell him? _Sti-les_ …"

"What would be the fun in that?" he inquires coyly as the door of the Jeep creaks to a close behind her.

"But what if—"

He cuts her off – hands at her waist pushing her backwards until she is pressed firmly against the truck, his body leaning into hers as he dives in for a kiss. He kisses her until she softens and her hands travel under his shirt. He kisses her until his knees start to weaken and he can feel her aching for more. He kisses her until they are both breathless. Then, and only then, Stiles pulls away.

"It's gonna be fine. Trust me," he guarantees Lydia with a wink as he gathers their things.

She gives him an exasperated look but follows up the stairs to the porch, anxiously calculating sums in her head to distract herself and tapping her foot as she waits for him to unlock the door. As they step over the threshold, the familiar surroundings fill her consciousness, and she starts to calm once more.

"Dad, I'm home," Stiles calls out.

"I'm in the bedroom," Noah's voice answers from down the hallway. "Be there in a minute."

"Well…make sure you're decent…I'm not alone," he informs.

Stiles deposits their bags in the hallway and leads Lydia into the living room. Prada scampers excitedly, yet silently, behind them as though she is privy to the fact that her bark could spoil the surprise.

While they wait, Stiles stands behind Lydia, folding both of his arms around her as she looks about the house. As he breathes the words _I'm here_ into her ear, Lydia remembers waking up on the couch with his arms locked securely around her. She remembers the heat spreading outwards from her chest when she felt and saw his love, from very the second she opened her eyes. She remembers his soft morning voice and his tired eyes that pleaded with her to let him do _just one thing_ for her. But it has never been _just one thing_ with Stiles. It's all the things. Every single thing he does reminds her that he cares. Heart overflowing with gratitude, Lydia is about to turn and kiss him, when his father rounds the corner dressed in his sheriff's uniform. Her stomach does a somersault, and she freezes.

At first, Noah is unaware of her presence, head tilted down as he fastidiously adjusts his badge. "So, who did you—" he begins, eyes shifting to focus on Stiles and Lydia, mouth falling agape. "Well, I'll be—"

"Dad!" Stiles interrupts, reaching for his arm.

"Lydia!" Noah exclaims.

His face lights up; eyebrows arching, blue eyes sparkling, mouth quirking into a crooked smile. Lydia can't help but notice how much it resembles Stiles's, and she relaxes.

"I… It's so good to see you!" he tells her.

She exhales a sigh of relief, closing her eyes until she hears his voice again and feels his hands on her shoulders.

"Welcome home, kiddo," Noah says. He is gentle and reassuring…like a father should be.

She bites her lip, throat clenching spastically right after she manages to speak the words, "Thank you, Noah."

Stiles urges her forward, then steps away to allow them some space.

They hug tightly. Lydia peers over Noah's shoulder at Stiles, who is smiling about as big as she has ever seen. She can see how much he loves her. It's written all over his face, spelled out as clearly as it was printed on the note that he tucked into her pocket this morning…and it feels like home.

Stiles meets Lydia's gaze. She is brilliantly radiant and full of emotion, and he can feel her love from across the room. It is crashing into him in powerful waves, washing over him with every beat of his heart. _Lydia is here. She loves me, and we are together_ , he thinks…and it feels like home again.

As Noah and Lydia part, Scott walks through the front door. He hangs his jacket on the coat rack and passes into the living room.

"So now, I've got all of my kids under one roof…even the four-legged one," Noah comments, referring to Prada, who has been tapping her paws on his leg in search of attention.

Stiles can't resist the temptation. With shaking shoulders, a fist somewhat poorly covering his smirking mouth, and his head ducked down, he teasingly pats Scott on the back.

Scott immediately understands the insinuation. Narrowing his eyes, he scowls, "Stil-es…what the—? Don't even go there!"

"What?" he laughs. "I didn't say anything! I can't help it if your mind automatically came to that conclusion!"

Scott instantly joins Stiles in laughter, hooking his arm around his best friend's neck.

The two boys wrestle with each other while Lydia and Noah exchange a knowing glance. "I haven't seen him this happy in such a long time," he remarks quietly, draping his arm over her shoulder. "I have no doubt it's all to do with you. He missed you so much… We both did."

Lydia presses a hand to her ribs to keep her heart from escaping her chest. She is about to burst into tears from the overwhelming feeling of acceptance when Stiles and Scott get dangerously close to tumbling into the coffee table, and Noah steps away to intercede.

"Alright…alright you two…break it up." There isn't a hint of anger in his tone. In fact, it seems to pain him to interrupt the carefree moment.

With cheerful reluctance, the boys concede, and Stiles circles back to Lydia's side.

"I hope you're all hungry. Dinner will be ready in ten," Noah announces, starting towards the kitchen. "Boys, why don't you come help me?"

Scott passes in front of Lydia, reaching out to touch her face as he does. He waves a hand at Stiles. "I've got it," he insists.

Once they are alone, Stiles takes Lydia's hands, sandwiching them between his. "I told you it would be okay."

"Yeah, you did."

"Feel alright?"

She tilts her head the side, shrugging one shoulder. "I feel a lot of things right now."

"Do you need a minute?" he asks sympathetically.

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll go put our stuff inside. Be back in a few."

Lydia nods and watches him head for the hall, resisting the urge to follow, because she is not quite ready to deal with the impending magnitude of walking into his room right now. She shuts her eyes, takes a breath, and waits for her love to return.

* * *

Shortly after, the family sit down to eat. The kitchen is warm from the heat of the oven and the entire house is filled with the comforting aroma of the dinner Noah cooked – Claudia's roasted chicken with mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables.

Lydia and Stiles are seated in their usual places, her right hand locked with his left throughout the meal. Stiles sinks into the sensation of Lydia's hand inside his own and the influence of her steadfast presence beside him. Occasionally, a flash of forest-green or strawberry-blonde catches his eyes as the sun illuminates her irises and reflects off her hair. She is an assembly of light and shade; her colors brighten the room with unmatched beauty and depth of expression – a living breathing work of art. As Stiles unsuccessfully tries to get Noah to discuss the case he is working on and animatedly talks to Scott about the upcoming trip to New York, Lydia listens with a hint of a smile, hypnotized by the way his free hand gestures as expressively as his face. He is a composition of movement; his vibrations fill the room with meaningful notes that resonate with vitality and love – a living breathing symphony that makes the small room something other than four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. When she places their joined hands in her lap, he flashes a smile. He looks at her often, his knee leaning against hers under the table, his thumb slowly tapping on the back of her hand in successions of three. To Lydia, it feels like Stiles is saying _I love you_ , over and over again…and he is. She squeezes his hand in response to each tap, one…two…three. To Stiles, it feels like Lydia is saying _I love you_ , over and over again…and she is.

After they have all finished their meal, Noah prepares to leave for work. "I better get going, guys. We've got a new lead in a missing persons case, so I'm in for a double shift. I'll be home around noon tomorrow." He addresses Stiles. "Son, come help me outside for a minute."

Stiles raises his eyebrows as he gets up from the table. "Sure, Dad. Just let me get Prada. It's time for her walk," he responds. He lets go of Lydia's hand, touches her cheek, and departs.

On his way out of the kitchen, Noah pats Lydia's shoulder. "I'm so happy to have you here again. I'll see you soon, okay?"

She nods, eyes slightly watery as she glances up at him. The next thing she feels is Scott's hand on her forearm.

"I should get going too," he tells her. "I'm meeting Kira soon."

"I'll walk you out," she offers, standing and linking their arms.

Scott grabs his jacket as they pass through the foyer, and the two step into the crisp early evening air. The sun is beginning to set in a pale blue sky that is accented with clouds, each coloring to a gradient of muted pastel hues from yellow, to pink, to lavender.

Lydia glances at Stiles. He and his father are several feet away, taking as they stand on the sidewalk beside Noah's vehicle. Stiles is nodding his head and blinking rapidly while he chews on his thumbnail. Noah has one hand on his hip and the other set at the nape of Stiles's neck. They hug before Noah climbs into his police-issued SUV.

When Lydia and Scott reach the curb, she tightens her grip on his bicep. "Thank you, Scott," she says.

"For what?" he asks. "I didn't do anything. It was all the two of you."

"Yes, you did." She purses her lips and looks into his eyes, deep and dark, and full of compassion. "You did what Allison would have done for me – you listened, you believed in me, and you gave me hope…when I thought I didn't have any left. And…if that wasn't enough, you encouraged Stiles not to give up on me."

Scott shakes his head. "He could never give up on you. He loves you that much. He just needed a reminder that he deserves to be happy."

"Still, I'll always be grateful. I can never thank you enough."

"Sure, you can. Just be happy…as often as possible."

"He makes that easy," she answers, nodding her head towards Stiles, who is waving good-bye to his father and leading Prada down the block.

"Yeah, he's a good one."

"So are you, Scott."

"Thanks." He smiles humbly as he puts on his jacket and moves to his bike. After a brief pause, he turns back to her. "Hey, Lydia?"

"Yeah?"

"How did you know? I mean…what you said to me at the cemetery... Did Stiles tell you?"

"Tell me what?" she asks.

"That Allison said the same thing to me…when I was holding her."

She clasps a hand over her mouth.

"You didn't know."

"No, I…" she falters, dropping her hand, "I didn't. I…just felt like I _had_ to say it."

They stare at each other in awe. Then, Scott encircles an astounded Lydia with both arms. "I'll never forget it…and I love you too."

She is wide-eyed and smiling when he pulls back.

He kisses her head and hops on his dirt-bike. "I'll ask Kira about the trip tonight. I'm sure she'll be excited…especially that it was your idea to invite her."

"Good, because I'd really like it if she's able to come. We can talk more at school on Monday."

"Okay, sounds good. I should warn you though...we'll probably have to force Kira into some Mets gear…she and her parents are Yankee fans."

"Nobody's perfect…" she notes with a grin before thinking, _Well…nobody except Stiles._

Scott laughs, then slides on his helmet, starts up his bike, and waves at Stiles as he rides towards the setting sun.

* * *

Lydia waits for Stiles, admiring him from a distance as she stands on the porch. When he arrives, carrying Prada, the trio enter the house, and Stiles locks the door behind them. He kicks off his sneakers and lets Prada off her leash. The pup dashes to her favorite spot under the coffee table and puffs out a small sigh.

Lydia and Stiles look at each other, soft laughter escaping their lips at the peaceful and familiar sight.

He takes her by the waist and brings her close. "So…she's happy."

"Yeah. She is," Lydia agrees. She is working her fingers into the collar of his shirt when she notices his pensive expression. "What are you thinking about?"

"Uh…don't mind me. You know how my thoughts wander."

"Stiles, tell me...please."

"It's just…I was thinking, if it were yesterday, we'd be fighting right now?"

"Oh," she remembers.

"That was the worst. It can't ever be like that again between us. I mean, I know we're going to disagree and argue sometimes but…not like _that_ – not to where we ever doubt how the other feels."

"No, not like that. Not ever."

"And I need you to know, Lydia…as bad as it was…the whole time…all I wanted was to just stop fighting and kiss you."

She tilts her head down, smiling timidly, then gazes at Stiles through her lashes. "I wanted that too."

He squeezes her tighter, honey-colored eyes alight with love for her. "How about…" he says, gently swaying her from side to side, "we tackle that mess…" he continues, ticking his head towards the kitchen, "as quickly as possible…so we can get to the really good stuff."

"That sounds perfect."

While Lydia is being lulled by the soothing motion of their bodies, Stiles as other ideas. He abruptly lets go of her and sprints for the kitchen yelling, "Last one in the kitchen is gonna be the first one to undress."

" _Stiles!_ That's not fair!" she squeals chasing after him, but he is already at the sink with a dish towel slung over his shoulder.

She takes the towel and playfully swats him in the backside, causing him to jump and splash himself with the running water. "You are going to pay for that later," she warns.

"I certainly hope so," he quips with an impish smirk, stealing the towel from Lydia to dry his hands before picking her up and setting her on the counter.

His heart speeds up as he inches nearer. _He wants her closer._ She parts her legs for him, fluttering in her stomach intensifying at a rapid pace. With one hand splayed across the curve of her spine and the other gently cupping the back of her head, he hesitates, delighted in anticipation – the breath before the kiss. Then, he leans in and covers her mouth with his.

Lydia can't suppress the moan that crawls out of her throat as his lips and tongue persistently work their magic on her, but somehow, she is able to get control of herself. "Stiles, focus," she reprimands feebly as her eyes shut and she bites on her lip.

"I am focused – on you…and… _you_ taste _so_ good," he rationalizes, moving to the pulse point in her throat and nipping at her skin there.

"Stiles, seriously…the faster we clean up…the faster…we…get into your room," she reminds, lips mingling with his as they formulate words and gasps.

"Sorry, I'll behave," he halfheartedly apologizes, sneaking one more kiss.

He reluctantly steps aside and rolls up his sleeves. Lydia immediately mourns the loss of physical contact, but she picks up a plate from the drain and begins to towel it dry. As she observes Stiles washing the remaining dishes, her mind strays. She is lost in thought when his voice draws her attention.

"Lyds, if you dry that any longer, you're going to wipe the pattern off of it."

"Huh?"

"The plate…I think it's dry."

"Oh…right." She shakes her head, moving onto the next, then opens her mouth to speak and closes it again.

Stiles reaches to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. "Did you want to kiss me…or ask me something?"

"Both."

When he smirks and eagerly moves in for more, she puts her finger to his lips. "That part comes later."

He pouts in surrender and returns to the sink. "Okay…what's your question then?"

She pauses, but curiosity gets the better of her. "You can tell me it's none of my business but…I was wondering if everything is okay…with you and your dad."

"Sure, everything's great." He looks blankly at her, but then swiftly makes the connection. "Oh...you mean, because he wanted to talk to me alone."

"Yeah."

Elevating his volume over the sound of clanking silverware, "Not one of his most subtle moments," he comments.

"Not really," she replies with a scrunched-up smile.

Stiles dries his hands and stands in front of Lydia again, placing his palms flat against the countertop on either side of her legs. "He wanted to tell me how happy he is for us…and, well…he mentioned my mom – how happy it would make her too, and talking about her always makes him a little emotional…so…"

Detecting the quiver in his voice as it trails off, she puts a hand over her face, feeling foolish for her insecurity.

His fingers curl around her wrist, pulling her hand aside as he crouches slightly to make eye contact. "Also…he was worried about you."

Something shifts inside when he says this, a pressure being lifted from her ribs. _His father was worried…about me,_ she thinks. "Me? Why?"

He hands her the last cup and runs his thumb across her cheekbone. "Well…he didn't want to put you on the spot by pointing it out…but you were so quiet during dinner."

"I didn't mean to be…but it's kind of overwhelming being back here."

"I know. It's okay…he gets it. Why did you think something was wrong?"

Lydia passes the dried glass back to Stiles. He stores it with the others in a cabinet on the opposite side of the sink.

"I thought…maybe he was…concerned…because…we kind of just sprung this on him…and you didn't come home last night…and now…we're together…" she explains.

Stiles's mouth twitches as he steps sideways to clean and dry the kitchen table. "Oh…that. He…uh…already covered _that_ …last month."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember that first night we slept in my bed."

She arches an eyebrow.

"Never mind…of course you do…" he continues, sound of his voice fading as he passes through to the laundry room to deposit the wet towels in the washing machine, then strengthening as he walks into the kitchen. "So…in the morning, he sort of addressed the issue of us sleeping together but not _sleeping together_."

"I see," she says, waiting patiently. _She wants him closer._

He puts his hands on her waist. "At the time, he thought that we might have been…rushing into things because of everything that was going on…but I explained what you mean to me, and he understood."

"And what _exactly_ did you explain?" Lydia fishes, reaching for his shoulders.

He happily accepts the bait. "That our relationship is important to me…" he tells her, sliding his hands under her thighs and wrapping her legs around him, "and that I love you."

"You told him that?" she beams.

"Yeah. It's the truth," he answers. "I love you – so much," he adds with certainty.

She runs her hands through his hair and looks into his eyes. "Stiles, I think we should go in your room now."

"I think you're right," he tells her, lips lightly brushing along her forehead.

He slides her body off the counter and sets her down in front of him. Then, they link hands and walk side by side through the living room, past a sleeping Prada, into the hallway, to the first door on the left.

The two stand in the doorway, air thick with emotion as Stiles leads Lydia inside. Without a second thought, she steps out of her boots, and crosses to the middle of the room with him, where they both come to a halt as the significance of the moment hits them with the full brunt of its force. After more than one month, _they are finally together_ , in his room. The same place that they have shared memories and secrets, laughter and tears, and hours of unspoken love.

Stiles stands behind Lydia, one arm across her shoulders, the other winding around her waist. He revels in the pleasure of holding her – tiny frame full of strength, determination, intelligence, untouched softness, and long-concealed emotion leaning against him – every curve fitting perfectly into the hollow spaces of his body. Lydia is a part of him. She erases the emptiness that overtook him in the lack of her. She diminishes every ache, every hour of longing, and every dark thought, and replaces them with light, and love, and hope. She fills him from the inside out, in a way that makes him believe he will never be void again.

Lydia can feel the heat from his chest against her back. It permeates through their clothing, scorching into her skin, and settles deep into her vertebrae; protective, enduring, promising – like a new memory being solidly formed within her bones instead of her mind, something that can never be manipulated or forgotten. Stiles is a part of her. He banishes the chill that sought to invade her body in his absence. He salves and covers every abrasion, mends every break, and emboldens her to reach for light, and love, and hope. He warms her from the inside out, in a way that makes her believe she will never be cold again.

Fascinated by the sensation Stiles inspires, Lydia's eyes drift around the room. The last glints of amber sunlight are flaring through the window, blue walls darkening in shade, emergent silence surrounding them like a melody. Everything is exactly as Lydia remembers…except for the wall across from the bed. Now, it is bare. No longer collaged with a mass of newspaper clippings, images, furiously written notes, and red string – all of the unrest gone, a slate washed clean of the clutter, a fresh start.

Lydia's entire body starts to shake. Her eyes go blurry as she turns to Stiles, rapidly blinking to find his features through the mist. He moves in front of her, minding her intently, struggling to swallow, bottom lip trembling as he takes her hands.

Like the moon draws the tide, two bodies are pulled together; arms, and hands, and lips close the distance as a spray of saltwater sprinkles the carpet. Lydia rests her chin on his chest, Stiles presses his forehead to hers…and _together_ they still, taking slow steady breaths, calmed by each other despite the pounding of their hearts against their rib cages and the kaleidoscopes of butterflies that swirl in their stomachs.

Stiles nudges Lydia's nose with his, an exhale passing over her lips when he speaks. "Are you okay?"

She kisses his cheek. "You're with me…and we're in your room. I'm better than okay. You?"

"We're together. I'm good."

They reach to wipe each other's tears at the same time.

"Do you want to get changed?" he asks.

"Yes."

Stiles guides Lydia to the bed, where their clothes are already neatly laid out, and his mouth automatically shapes into a smile. "You were the last one in the kitchen so…your clothes are coming off first."

She rolls her eyes as she laughs, "Fine. I'll go first…but we're taking turns…one piece of clothing at a time."

"That wasn't the deal."

"There was no deal. You cheated…and you never specified the rules, so…it's that or—"

He shakes his head. "Don't finish that sentence! You win. We'll take turns."

The corners of her mouth victoriously turn upwards as she seductively bats her eyelashes at him. "It's better when we _both_ have our clothes off anyway… Isn't it?"

"Can't argue with that."

Lydia rises to the tips of her toes, hands sliding to either side of his face, and she kisses Stiles with unhurried passion, giving them both a chance to revel in the silent communication. When she stops for a breath, his hands are grasping her blouse, untucking it from her skirt. He leans in to bury his face in her neck, peppering kisses over every inch of her uncovered skin. Eventually, he parts his lips from the curve of her collarbone to lift her blouse overhead. She reaches for the edge of his pullover, separating it from the tee shirt underneath as he ducks so she can free him of it. He reaches behind to unzip her skirt, sound of the zipper and accelerated breaths the only noise in the room. His hands slide into the waistband, then glide over her hips, and layers of blue chiffon flow upwards like a parachute as the skirt plummets to the floor. She clutches the front of his white tee, knuckles grazing the length of his abs and as she removes it, cool metal of her little gold ring sending shivers up his spine as it connects with his skin. Lydia tingles all over from the way Stiles's hands gingerly cup her back and how adeptly his long fingers unclasp her bra. He glides the straps down her arms and tosses the undergarment aside. Careful hands push a veil of auburn behind her shoulders, fully exposing her breasts, and a flash of silver from the bead on her necklace prompts his memory. Left eyebrow arched, Stiles bows his head and presses his lips to Lydia's sternum, causing her to jolt with electric anticipation. He enjoys the whimpering sound she makes when he lets his mouth linger, tongue jutting out to taste her skin and thumbs massaging the sides of her ribs as he supports her back with is palms. Her hands move to his belt buckle, and he shuts his eyes as she unfastens it. Two dainty hands nimbly unbutton his khakis and slowly undo his zipper. Gripping the sides of his pants, she tugs downwards, sinks to the floor, and waits for him to step out of them. She molds her hands around his calves to keep balance, her eyes searching for the scar on his left knee – a permanent mark from an unfriendly exchange during a lacrosse game with Devenford Prep, several months ago.

Stiles feels a spark spread through him as Lydia's lips caress his scar. He remembers her kneeling in the grass as he sat on the bench, bloodied and bruised. He felt no pain, only awe at the way she outshone the moonlight. He remembers the tender manner in which she cleaned and dressed his wound, and how she sat close beside him for the remainder of the game with their elbows linked and their fingers woven together. Lydia grins as his joint locks, her name breezing past his lips like a prayer. She remembers how Stiles nervously talked to her in rambling sentences, fingers curled around the edge of the wooden bench as he struggled not to fidget while she bandaged the gash. Her breath caught in her throat when she looked up at him that night; his face full of love, one hand suddenly reaching out for her blushing cheek in unspoken thanks. She remembers that despite the chill in the air, she felt warm and safe sitting next to Stiles. She remembers silently wishing that the game would go into overtime, just so she could stay with him a bit longer. Lydia reaches to the bed for his black sweatpants and waits for him to step into them. Then, she draws them upwards as she stands, kissing her way up his torso, to his neck, and stopping at the sharp angle of his jawline. He takes her by the waist, biceps flexing as he brings her nearer, and she can feel him hardening against her – but they go slow. They have time. They have all night…and all morning too…and they want it to last.

They simply cling to each other. Lydia and Stiles. Skin on skin – her head over his heart, hands lightly stroking his back, and his lips pressed to her forehead, arms surrounding her figure.

The heat that Stiles infused into Lydia's spine gradually stretches further. It floats along her shoulders, unfurling like angel wings. Then, it wraps around her ribs, enveloping her entire body with an unparalleled feeling – she is safe, she is loved, _and she is home._

"Stiles," she whispers, "I love you."

Three words that when paired with his name, sound like a promise and a dream come true. Motionless, he holds her tightly; her lashes tickling his collarbone, her perfectly curled mane of strawberry-blonde draped over his forearms, her breasts soft and warm against his bare chest. He holds her until he can't wait any longer. Then, his hands move to gently cradle her face as he watches the green shade of her eyes brightening with emotion.

"I loved you the night you got that scar…and so many nights before. I've loved you every night since…and I'll never stop. I need you to know that…" she continues with tears in her eyes, "no matter what, I'll always come back to you too."

He loves her so much that his heart is on fire, so Stiles does the only thing he can think of – he waits for Lydia's eyes to flutter closed, takes a long look at her beautiful face, and he kisses her. He kisses her because he is at a loss for words. He kisses her because there is no way he could ever resist the barely-there smile that has taken shape on her mouth. He kisses her the way she deserves to be kissed; gentle pressure…because he is in no rush, silky tongue sweeping over her bottom lip seeking entrance, then flicking into her mouth as his lips merge with hers in slow motion. He kisses her, _and he is home._

Stiles is kissing her, and it makes her lightheaded. She loves him so much that she can't breathe, so Lydia does the only thing she can think of – she kisses him back, lets him breathe for her. She loses herself in him, thinks purely with her senses; the taste and scent of him, the sound of their lips and his sighs, the sight of him…even with her eyes closed, and the feeling of his body which incites the quickening of her heart as he openly shows her the depths of his love from within the beckoning shelter of his room.

When he stops and takes her clothes from the bed, kneeling in front of her, Lydia shifts her eyes to the ceiling, dabbing at the remnants of her tears and pursing her lips. Stiles kisses her thighs as she giggles. Looping his fingers around her ankles, one at a time, he directs them into the leg openings of her lace-trimmed shorts, then he catches the waistband and drags them upwards, standing to full height once more.

"Lift," he says as he towers over her.

She raises her arms, and he lovingly slides a jade-green camisole along her arms and body, side of his thumb tenderly skimming her scar as he smooths the cotton fabric over her abdomen. Her arms drop around his neck, and he pulls her to him, lifting her off the ground so he can carefully seat her atop his plaid-cloaked bed.

"Sit here for a sec… I have something for you," he tells her, stepping away to cross the room.

She tilts her head, waiting.

His eyes scan the surface of his desk, while he scratches at his chin. "Close your eyes."

Lydia looks at him suspiciously but indulges. Within seconds, she hears Stiles approach, senses light from his bedside lamp, and feels him sit next to her. He picks up her left hand, rotating it so that her palm faces up, then places something cool and delicate into her hand.

"Okay, open," he instructs.

"Stiles," she breathes, as her eyes refocus. "My bracelet. You fixed it!"

"Good as new…well, almost," he explains, hooking her necklace with his index finger and rolling the bead that suspends at its center from side to side. "I was short one bead…so I had to add one. I hope you don't mind." He points out a heart-shaped silver bead with an arrow through it, that adorns the center of the bracelet. "I'm sorry it took so long. Does it look okay?"

She smiles, eyes glistening with tears, but it is a genuine Lydia Martin smile, complete with dimples. "It's perfect. Stiles, it's perfect. Now it means both of you. I love it." She holds her wrist out to him."Will you?"

He takes the bracelet from her and secures it around her arm, then bows his head to kiss the inside of her wrist. When he straightens, and their eyes meet, Lydia speaks to him affectionately.

"Just so you know, I am going to wear this bracelet all the time, but…" she runs her hand along the side of his face, "mon cadeau le plus précieux, c'est toi."

Stiles exhales a breathy laugh. "I don't understand French, but that sounded beautiful…and really hot."

"It means that my most precious gift is _you."_

He can't think of a single response that is worthy of her, so he leans into her hand and closes his eyes as she kisses his brow.

"Are you tired?" she asks.

"No. Are you?"

"No. Wanna get in bed anyway?"

"Yeah."

They stand, and Stiles slides under the covers, lying down on his left, arms open and waiting for Lydia. She climbs in next, dissolving into his perpetual warmth as he drapes the blankets and sheets over their bodies. In silence, they hold fast, eyes locked in spellbound attraction – exhilarated and a bit stunned to be together again in the place they both call home…and everything else fades away.

As night falls, the expansive sky darkens to black beyond the window, but the brightness of the moon filters through the blinds. It blends with the dim provided by the bedside lamp, bathing the young couple in diffused light as they lie next to each other, spared of all perception of time. Locked in a starry-eyed embrace, both of their minds wander towards the future.

After a while, Stiles speaks. "Lyds, I can practically hear you thinking. What's going on in that beautiful mind of yours?" he inquires, brushing the tips of his fingers across her forehead.

His question is answered with a pause, and a sigh, and the soft sound of her voice. "I'm thinking that…for so long, I never knew it could be like this…real love. It feels _so right_ – being here…in _your_ bed…in _your_ arms."

"It feels right to have you here."

Her eyes fall shut, and a droplet lands on his upper arm.

"You're crying," he acknowledges with concern.

"It's because I'm happy." She smiles gently. Her eyes flash towards his, then away.

Even with only a few seconds of contact, he can see that she has more to say, and he waits, because he is more than willing to listen.

"But also...remember how you said...I should tell you when I'm scared?"

"Yeah, I meant it."

"I know, but I don't want to ruin this."

"Don't worry. You won't. You can tell me anything."

"I'm a little scared right now."

Stiles rests his thumb on Lydia's chin. "Why?"

"I'm worried about what's ahead of us," she admits through a sniffle, nestling her face in the crook of his neck.

Recognizing the tension in her body, he rubs her back; warm palms and rough fingertips slide under her clothing in search of skin. "It's okay. Talk to me… Tell me what's bothering you."

She touches the center of his chest, finding solace in the beating of his heart, and the words begin to flow. "For the first time, I'm starting to be able to picture a future for us…and it isn't anything like I thought it would be. It's something that isn't so grim...or carefully planned out…something I could have never pictured before you…and I'm just..."

"Go ahead," he encourages, giving her a squeeze.

"I'm just so confused. I mean…I set all of these goals for myself… They were so clear in my mind, and I was so sure they were what I wanted, but that was before…before I was bitten. As much as I hate to admit it…what happened that night changed me. The past year-and-a-half has changed me too. There's so much I don't know about myself…about being a banshee and how it's going to affect me," she says in a low voice, her throat tightening with uncertainty. "I want to go to college, but how will I know where the right place is…when I've never been anywhere but here? And with everything that's happened…everything I've lost…" she arches back to look at him, lifting a hand from his chest to caress his face, "everything I've found…I'm not sure what I want anymore. Am I making any sense?"

"Yeah, you make a lot of sense. Lydia, you've been through so much…especially in the past few months. Of course, you're going to have questions and all kinds of doubts."

"You've been through as much as I have. Do you have doubts too?"

"Sure I do."

"Will you tell me?"

"Well…...for one, I thought I knew what I wanted to do…as a career, but I'm not sure anymore. I know I want to help people…as broad a direction as that is…and law enforcement seems like the obvious choice…but there are lots of ways to help people. I mean…can you picture me as a police officer or an FBI agent?"

"If you're referring to whether I can imagine how hot you'll look in a uniform or a suit…then yes, I can," she flirts, arching her left eyebrow.

He chuckles and gives her a kiss.

"But to answer your question…" she regards him thoughtfully, "aside from the fact that you'd be a brilliant detective…no, I can't."

"Right?" he nods. "I think I'd lose my mind. I definitely couldn't stand all the rules and regulations…and seeing what my dad goes through…now that he knows what we know…" he huffs and shakes his head, "I don't want to spend my life having to pretend or constantly trying to cover things up. It's a lot to think about, and it's really intimidating."

"So, you're just as scared as I am?"

"Yeah…but the good news is…we can be scared together. We don't have to decide anything right now. We have the entire summer to think about where we want to apply to college. Right now, we need some time to catch our breath."

"If this place ever _lets_ us. Stiles, what if I'm only fooling myself...thinking about the future? What if we never get out of Beacon Hills?"

"We will. We are going to get out of here…soon… _together_." He places one hand on her cheek and sets the other firmly into the curve of her hip. "Lyds, I have no doubt that you will get into whatever university you want to go to. If you'd rather take a year off…see the world…see what's out there, you can do that. You'll be amazing – no matter where you go or when you start. Someday, you are going to get that Fields Medal…and I'll be so proud of you…but the fact that you are a math genius is only one part of who you are. You're great at a lot of things…and being creative makes you happy too…I can see it in the way your face lights up when you paint or draw. Maybe you'll be an artist, and you'll travel through Europe like you've always wanted…see the gardens you've dreamed of visiting. Maybe your work will be featured in galleries all over the world."

"You think I could do that?" she asks, eyes shining, smile broadening.

"You can do anything you want…because, Lydia, _you_ are meant for so much more than this place."

She takes his hand from her cheek, brings it to her lips, and kisses his knuckles. "So are you. You are going to make such a mark on this world…just like you did on my heart…and I can't wait to see it. I might not be sure of a lot of things, but I am sure of one thing."

"What's that?"

"You. I want to be with _you_ , wherever I go."

"I want that too. As far as everything else…we've got time. We can figure it out."

"We're pretty good together… Aren't we?"

"Yeah, we are," he agrees with smile. "Do you feel better?"

"Much."

Lydia rises up to drop a kiss on his forehead, then scatters a few more on his cheeks, nose, and jaw before turning her attention to his mouth. He passionately returns the affection.

They are bound, one breath rising… _and they are home_. It's not just a place. It's a feeling — the kind that will go with them everywhere…like a shadow or a friend.

She looks at Stiles, and adds, "You make everything better."

For the third time this evening, he is speechless. He bashfully bows his head, but she catches his chin in her palms, coaxing him to keep his eyes on her. Stiles watches Lydia's expression shift; all traces of worry reshaped into pure serenity. She is calm and happy, and her love for him is seeping out of every pore of her flawless complexion. Freed of inhibition, the open expression of her love is so enlightening, that he can see into her soul…and it is stunning; bright, and welcoming, and infinitely beautiful. He feels like he was just gifted a glimpse into heaven.

"Stiles, tell me about this summer…all of the things we're going to do."

He kisses each of her palms and inhales. "It's going to be the best, Lyds. Not just the trip to New York…even our time here…because we're going to spend as many sunrises together as possible. We can take our time…kissing each other awake…and we'll make breakfast together, like we did this morning…and I wouldn't mind showering with you again either," he grins, as her hands lazily skim the lines of his torso. "We could go to that little bookstore on Murray Hill that you love, sit in the nook by the stained-glass window, and read together for as long as you like. Then, we could drive to the beach…that spot near Pebble Cove where the water is so clear and it's always quiet enough to hear the church bells in the distance. Prada can come with us, and we can play in the surf with her. We'll spend the rest of the day relaxing in the sand…maybe you'll even bring your sketchbook. When it's too hot to be outside, we'll stay in. We'll crank up the air conditioner and pretend its winter. We can make hot chocolate with marshmallows, and watch movies in bed together…or fall asleep in the middle of the day if we want. When it's raining, we'll curl up under a blanket on the porch swing. We can listen to the rain, and each other, and forget about the rest of the world. I'll still write you notes…and every time you find one, no matter what I write, you'll know it means that I love you."

His eyes never stray. Boundlessly soulful and deeply captivating, they radiate love for her. She feels it again – her fragile heart brimming with _too much love_. So, Lydia grasps for Stiles's hand, bracing herself for the inevitable pain she will experience when a new fissure threatens to make its presence known. But it doesn't happen. Instead, her heart begins to feel stretched in the best possible way as his words carefully expand its fibers, making them stronger, more flexible, ready to house even more love for him. She thinks this must be what heaven feels like. Former heartache somehow transformed by the discovery of something greater than oneself; a higher level of understanding and connection to all things good.

Everything Stiles says sounds like poetry. She could listen to him talk for hours…all night even. She could listen to him talk for as long as he wants. She could listen to him talk forever.

"Tell me more, my love," she whispers, eyelids growing heavy with contentment.

"On clear nights, we'll get milkshakes and French fries from the diner on Poplar and drive to Lookout Point to watch the sunset…but we'll end up watching each other instead. I'll always keep pillows and blankets in the Jeep, so when it's dark and the air gets cooler, we can lie down in the back and hold each other, the way we did on your birthday. We'll talk for hours about everything and nothing at all. We can make plans and change them until they feel right. Then, we'll come home…and we'll get naked…and we'll make out and _more_ …until we're exhausted. We'll fall asleep in each other's arms…and the next day…we'll start all over again. How does that sound?"

"It sounds perfect." Lydia snuggles closer, draping her leg over his hip. "Stiles?"

"Mmm…"

"I love you too much."

He laughs softly. "I love you too much too, my sweet Lydia."

Stiles draws Lydia's body near until there is no space left between them. She drowsily blinks, stubbornly refusing sleep just to look at him, until the rhythm of his heart and the timbre of his reassuring words soothe her to tranquil sleep.

Minutes later, Stiles is still struggling to withhold a yawn, fighting to stay awake just to keep Lydia in view, until the steady cadence of her breathing and the tethering contact of her hands on his bare skin inspire him to seek peaceful slumber.

 _Together_ they rest; just Lydia and Stiles. Not Lydia, the girl who feared that she would lose the boy she loved if she told him how she felt. Not Stiles, the boy who wondered if the girl he loved would ever return his feelings. Just Lydia and Stiles – a girl and a boy who love each other. Free of longing, free of unrest, free of nightmares. Full of light, full of love, and full of hope.

* * *

Many sunsets and sunrises later, after Lydia and Stiles spend many more happy days together, as well as some dark days that confront them with a cruel battery of trials and hardships – some that make them question everything they thought they knew to be true – they are still _together._ They delight in the joys they experience _together,_ fight through every pain _together,_ living each and every moment in between _together_. No matter how much space, time, consciousness, or memory seeks to divide them, they remain resilient, _together_.

Time and again, they successfully overcome the evil that would have them suffer a life apart. Scarred in the process, but always finding a way back to each other; stronger in the aftermath in both their love and their appreciation for the quiet hours before dawn when they cling to each other, murmuring secrets and sharing their hopes and dreams. They drift to sleep every night, wrapped in each other's embrace, anchored by an unbreakable bond that goes beyond the physical, beyond emotion, beyond description. They wake slowly each day, bolstered by each other's presence, knowing they have everything they need, because they are _together._

* * *

One morning as they lie in bed, in a tiny flat, in their own pristine corner of the world, Lydia speaks to Stiles.

They are still coming down from the ecstasy of being together, bodies still connected, breathing still ragged and quick. He admires her – eyes bright and awake and intently aware, smile open and honest and framed with deep dimples, cream complexion splashed with rose petal cheeks, hair rivaling the late harvest sun, solar flares glowing off each copper strand as he coils them around his fingertips. He lovingly flashes a crooked grin, gazing at her through his lashes, flecks in his eyes glimmering like gold dust in first light. He delights in the feeling of her on top of him – skin on skin, soft and smooth, and just beyond comfortably warm.

Her hands trace love notes along his ribs as she leans down to whisper in his ear. "I live for moments like this," she says. "Just you and me, my love, waking up slowly together, with the sun rising in the distance, a cool breeze coming in through the window, your heartbeat in sync with mine, and nothing but a breath between us."


End file.
